Bait
by Maz Kazama
Summary: When the unknown is common knowledge and hunters are relegated to merely survivors, humanity is dwindling. With humans traded as currency, John and Sam find themselves with a new tool for their arsenal–a bait named Dean. Abused!Dean Protective!Winchesters
1. Chapter 1

**Okay guys, a new fic here. Something a little bit different to what I've done before but I hope you enjoy.**

_Title: __Bait_**  
_Summary:_**_ In a world where the 'unkown' is common knowledge and 'hunters' are relegated to merely survivors, humanity is dwindling. With human lives traded as currency, John and Sam Winchester find themselves with a new tool for their arsenal – a 'bait' named Dean.  
_**Pairings: **_None yet but either way, it's still going to be Gen. No Wincest here folks! _  
**Genre: **_It's an AU but I've tried to keep everyone in character as best I can. Could probably pass as a slavefic as well. **  
**_******Warnings: **_Violence, Swearing, Abuse, Slavery, Memories of child abuse. Abused!Dean, Hurt!Dean, Scared!Dean etc etc. Oh yeah, minor character death._

**Oh yes. This was betad (very well) by the wonderful ****smokeyhorse** who is the one prodding me along with this, lol. Thanks a lot to her!

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**Bait**

Chapter One

John is exhausted and his eyes sting as the iris scanner momentarily blinds him. The tiny blip of technology seems out of place in the huge cedar-wood gate but he's used to it now and it barely registers. The light passes over Sammy too, who waves to the guards and the huge door finally creaks open.

John limps on through, Sam walking beside him with long, powerful strides.

_Youth is wasted on the young, _John thinks with a rueful shake of his head as his son bounds off towards the crowd that's gathered to meet them. There are cheers and whoops and John is clapped on the back as he trudges through the mass of people. He should be cheering along with them; he's just achieved his life's ambition, after all. Heck, if there was anything left to celebrate in the living nightmare Planet Earth had become, this was it. Well, John Winchester never was one for cheering.

He leaves Sam to deal with the elated rabble of hunters and simply sinks himself down on the nearest thing he can find. The overturned metal drum is cold and rusty and does nothing for his sore hip.

"You ain't look like a man who just killed Azazel."

John looks up, watching as the man seats himself without invitation. He recognises him – Jeremy Edwin, a man John's heard nothing good about and has already decided he doesn't like. He is balding early and looks somewhere between thirty and forty years old. The thin sheen of sweat on his brow indicates he's more nervous than his attitude suggests.

The man is wearing the remains of a suit, the tie long gone, the trousers frayed and worn, the cufflinks gone, most likely traded for something. He's probably the most well dressed guy in the whole camp and John dislikes him even more for that.

"Yeah? What's that guy supposed to look like then?" John asks disinterestedly. He drops his attention back to the dirt in between his feet, not remotely interested in Edwin's answer. Hasn't he earned some peace and quiet? Still, it doesn't do to make enemies here and John's too exhausted for a confrontation

"He's supposed to have a fucking smile on his face for one!" Edwin beams at his own comment, clapping his hand on John's shoulder in a false show of companionship. John wonders if the guy would still be smiling if he reached up and broke a few of his yellow, nicotine-stained fingers.

"Sorry to disappoint." John scuffs the ground with his worn boots, wonders if he has to carve 'fuck off' into the dirt before this guy will get the message that he wants to be left alone.

"Not much for smiling, are you, John?"

He's not told the man his name and, even if he does have a reputation (which will only grow after today's events) he's still immediately wary. He lifts his eyes to stare into Edwin's green ones and watches the flicker of a smirk pass over the man's face.

_Fuck this_. He's not in the mood for power games.

"What do you want?" John snaps impatiently.

"I want to give you something to make you smile." And that just sounds all kinds of wrong to John's ears.

"Sorry, buddy," John stands and deliberately doesn't wince when his hip protests, carving his features into a smirk instead of a grimace, "but I don't swing that way."

"Hilarious, John." Edwin stands, too, and John can tell he's pissed the man off.

"It made me smile," John shoots over his shoulder as he walks away. He wants some quiet, a beer and a smoke but he'll settle for any one of those.

"Boy!"

John stops walking at this - where does Edwin get off calling him a 'boy'? He may be exhausted from the battle with Azazel but John Winchester has enough energy left to teach this guy some respect. Petty? Maybe. But respect is about the only thing in the world worth a damn any more.

"Before you leave, John, I have something for you."

John turns back to face Edwin as he speaks and then does a double-take as he notices the younger man is no longer alone. By his side is another man, a lot younger (probably a few years older than Sam) but by no means a child. Still, he's a boy in John's eyes, too.

John remains silent as he looks over the young man. He's a tall guy, the thinness of his body only adding to that effect. His hair, under the dirt and what looks worryingly like blood, is a soft brown colour, just like Sam's, and the one eye which isn't bruised shut is light green and flecked with hazel. All in all, the boy's a mess and John has no clue what he's doing there but something tells him not to dismiss this situation outright. Something he doesn't even want to contemplate stops him from just walking away.

"This is yours," Edwin speaks, shoving the younger man forward until he stands between John and himself.

"Who is this?" John frowns. He doesn't want to ask questions, to show any weakness, but he can't help it. He's heard stories of what happened to kids from the new generation, kids whose parents died, kids who grew up with no other frame of reference than this corrupt, demon-controlled world, kids whose parents sold them. It makes John sick and he feels his hands curl into fists at the thought of it. His brittle, jagged fingernails cut semi-circles into his palms as another thought pushes into his brain.

_Kids whose parents couldn't find them?_

"A new toy for you," Edwin sneers and John is at least grateful that the unpleasant man is drowning out John's equally unpleasant thoughts, "It's bait."

"I don't take in strays." It breaks John's heart to say it, even if the kid doesn't flinch at his rejection. He knows what will likely happen to the boy after this and even if it doesn't, life as 'bait' is hardly life at all. The hunter can't believe he's sentencing a kid to that but he has Sammy to think of. Anything or anyone associated with Edwin is to be treated with suspicion, and, on top of that, John doesn't really have the resources to look after another hungry mouth.

"It's a gift, John. You shouldn't refuse a gift, especially not this one."

John wants to scream. He's just had the most intense battle of his life. He's given the humans a major one-up and this is the thanks he gets - the last thing he wants from the person he least wants it from. He has to end this now before those treacherous thoughts at the back of his mind start becoming insistent enough to listen to.

"I'm not interested."

"Oh, well." Edwin shrugs with mock hurt and then his face schools itself into his normal, cruel features. "On your knees, Bait."

At this, the hard, uncompromising eyes of the youngest man actually flinch as he briefly turns them to John. And then, as John forces himself to look away, they flood with anger, before that familiar emotionless stare takes over.

"I said on your knees!" Edwin pushes the boy into the dirt and John flinches at the force of it.

_You don't care_, he speaks harshly to himself. _You don't care, you don't care..._

"What are you doing?" The words come out of John's mouth before he can stop them.

_Shut up, you're trying not to care remember?_

"Dad?"

The word makes John freeze for a second as he stares at the boy. No, no, no…It can't be! It isn't. Oh, please…

"Dad, what's going on?"

John's heart feels like it's trying to turn itself inside out as Sam appears next to him and he realises that it was his son who spoke, not the boy on the ground.

"Are you okay? What's happening?" Sam's eyes are flickering between John, Edwin, and the unnamed youth and John watches them widen as Edwin brings out a revolver.

"Sam, get out of here." John knows it won't do any good, Sam's never followed his orders anyway and asking him to walk away from this situation is asking the impossible for his curious, kind-hearted son.

"Ah, the famous Sam Winchester. Good work today, kid." Edwin is speaking without even looking up as he slides bullets into the chamber. He's loaded three before Sam replies.

"What the hell's going on?"

"You father was very ungrateful and now he's too much of a coward to face up to what he **knows**." Edwin looks straight at John, popping the sixth bullet into the chamber as he speaks the final word, neither man noticing the almost-hidden flinch of the intended recipient of those bullets.

"Dad?" Sam questions again but John simply can't find it in him to speak. He doesn't _know _anything and how could Edwin know about…about what happened?

"Walk away, Sam!" he finally chokes out, his voice higher than normal, and Sam simply narrows his eyes in response only for them to fly open again as Edwin places the gun barrel against the forehead of the youth kneeling in the dirt. The youth closes his eyes but Sam can see him shaking even from a metre away. He knows, if someone had a gun to _his _head, there's no way he would be so calm.

"You gonna let your Daddy make the biggest mistake of his life, Sammy-boy?" Edwin smirks and Sam scowls before pulling out his own gun. John is surprised, Sam doesn't usually respond with violence but his son's display of strength is enough to snap him out of the stupor he was in.

"Drop the act, Edwin! You can't kill a man in cold blood - it's against the code" John snarls.

"The code doesn't apply to bait," Edwin sneers, his distaste for the youth at his feet obvious.

"He's a human being!" Sam shouts and John glows with pride. It takes something to raise a son with good morals in an immoral world. Maybe the boy had turned out a little softer than John wanted, a little more bookish than he expected and a damned sight more stubborn than John could have ever dreamed possible, but he loves his son unconditionally.

"No." Edwin's voice is cold, "He's bait, and if John doesn't want it then I've got no more use for it."

"I'll take him!" Sam blurts out, "Just don't kill him."

"I knew one of you would see sense." Edwin smiles. "Come on, we have a deal to complete."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed!**

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks for all your kind words, everyone!  
**

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Chapter Two

Sam knows he's going to be exhausted later as a fresh surge of adrenaline pulses through him. He's already drained from the battle with Azazel, then the elation of celebrating and now this weird situation. The strange man, Edwin, has re-holstered his gun, which has left an indent in the forehead of the man kneeling on the floor. Bait…Sam shudders at the word. He can't think of a human being like that.

"Hey," he speaks as the young man pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. "I'm Sam."

The other man doesn't reply and Sam chews on his bottom lip as he considers this. It's not all that surprising, he supposes – if someone had just effectively bought _him_, he probably wouldn't want to talk to them either.

"I know you must be a bit shaken up, but…" Sam trails off as the boy simply starts walking away, following Edwin and Sam's father.

"Ok, well, maybe that was an understatement," Sam admits as he starts to keep pace with the still unnamed youth, who shoots him a glare in response.

_Sure, Sam, make a joke out of it. It's only the guy's entire life you're dealing with! _

Sam wants to kick himself but he settles for simply apologising.

"I'm sorry, I know this is serious."

He receives another stony glare in response and gets the sinking feel that he's just digging a deeper hole for himself. Well, how the hell is he supposed to know what to say in a situation like this?! His Dad has never been involved with anything like this, telling Sam it was unthinkable back in the old days…before 'Gate'. Sam thinks the old days must have been pretty sweet.

He settles for walking in somewhat uncomfortable silence, his green eyes flickering between Edwin, walking at the front of the group, and the man walking at Sam's side. The gap between the two is widening as the younger of the pair struggles to keep pace with Edwin's energetic strides.

Sam takes the time to really study the injured young man as he waits for him to catch up.

He's looking down as he picks his way across the ground, giving Sam a view of his spiky, dirty hair. He doesn't need to see the man's face again to recall those vivid blotches of bruising; it feels like they're stuck in his mind and he won't ever be able to forget them. The guy's dressed in a long-sleeved sweater that, clearly a couple of sizes too big, hangs off his thin frame, the sleeves dropping over his hands, creating an almost child-like air about him. He's limping, although trying badly to hide it. As Sam's attention drifts to the guy's legs, he starts to notice little details he hadn't had time to take in during the initial confrontation – the rips in the tattered denim jeans, the bloodstains crusted onto the ancient fabric and, most noticeably, the man's bare feet. The ground under Sam's feet is compact dirt littered with rubble and debris, he dreads thinking of what damage could be happening to the tender flesh on the soles of the man's feet. He thinks better than to speak of it, though, because it's not like there's anything he can do about it; shoes are expensive and Sam certainly doesn't have any pairs to spare. Despite this, for the rest of the walk he still feels guiltily aware of his feet nestled comfortably in his sturdy boots.

By the time they arrive at Edwin's 'office', exhaustion is beginning to set into the Winchesters. John longs for a minute alone with his son, to talk about this. The cowardly part of him, the part that is becoming increasingly more and more convinced that his suspicions are true, wants to just turn and walk straight back. He dealt with his grief a long time ago. He can't deal with the fact that he was wrong, that he gave up when his son was still alive. That his son had to endure a life as bait instead of a life with his father and brother.

_You don't even know that it's him. Turn around, walk away and forget about him. You don't need to find out, you don't need to face this._

And then John turns to his youngest son and watches him glare daggers into Edwin. Sam Winchester is no coward and he's learned that off his father. So, encouraged by this, John signs on the dotted line and seals it with his blood. He listens to Edwin explain his new 'tool's' training and watches him bring the boy to his knees with crippling pain using only an incantation. And then, as Sam leads the boy outside, he turns to Edwin and calmly aims his gun right between the man's eyes.

"Is it him?" John asks quietly and his tone is deadly.

Edwin pauses for a moment, but to John it feels like a taunt, as though the man is purposefully drawing out his anticipation. Then his lips curl up into a smirk and he replies.

"It's him, John. You found him." Another pause and John tightens his finger on the trigger, "Shame you were twenty years too late."

John fires and doesn't stick around to watch the corpse topple to the floor.

* * *

Sam jumps at the sound of the gunshot and feels the man beside him do the same. He really wishes he had a name to call him by since he refuses to think of any person as 'bait'. If he doesn't find out soon, he's going to invent one.

"Alright, kids, let's go."

Sam is relieved to see his Dad walking alive and well from the shack that posed as Edwin's office. His tone implies no nonsense, but Sam can't help but ask as they set off towards home.

"You killed Edwin?"

"Guy had it coming." John shrugs in response and Sam laughs because it's pretty much the only thing he can do in response to _that_. Besides, he's far more interested in the way that the new addition to their group reacts to the news – his face finally showing something other than surly aggression. But it's not the joy or satisfaction Sam was expecting to see; it's a look of panic and alarm, which disappears as quickly as it arrived.

His Dad doesn't add anything else and Sam feels frustrated that he's seemingly the only one affected by this ridiculous silence. It seems like this new addition to the household has a lot more in common with John Winchester than his own _son _does.

"So…doesn't anyone have anything to say?" He asks with an exasperated, over-dramatic shrug. "After everything that just happened…"

"There's a lot that needs to be said, Sam," John replies flatly and Sam wants to throttle him.

"So say it! We have to deal with this! I mean we own someo-." he turns to their new 'acquisition'. "We 'own' you…" He softens his tone and adds air quotes, as if _that _makes what he's saying any less horrific. "We own you, and we don't even know your name…"

"You don't give names to bait," the man finally speaks. His voice sounds rough and raw with a hint of bitterness.

"You aren't bait, you're a person," Sam insists firmly, "so you need a name. Didn't you have one before…" Sam trails off, feeling like he's sinking into that self-made hole again.

To his surprise, the man replies. He's subconsciously rubbing his thumbs nervously across his crossed forearms as he talks. "I don't remember before."

Sam tries and fails to make eye contact. He's heard stories about this aspect of trafficking, people made to run across the plains between camps to lure out the demons. People chained and at the mercy of beasts so snipers can kill the monster while it feasts on human flesh. To know no other life than one of fear and danger? To spend your entire life knowing that no one cared for you, no one was going to look out for your welfare, no one to keep you safe? Sam suddenly feels overwhelmed with emotion and he moves to walk beside his father, suddenly grateful for all those times his father forced him to train, forced him to memorise chants and glyphs, for everything his father did to keep them safe.

"Well, no way are we calling you 'Bait'," John replies, and his tone leaves no option for argument. There's a pause and Sam watches as his father wrestles with some indecision in his mind, not something he's seen very often, before speaking again.

"How does 'Dean' sound?"

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**Thanks again to the awesomeness of my beta. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So thanks to everyone who's reviewing and enjoying the fic. I'm quite nervous so you guys are helping! Just an advance warning, this chapter mentions the death of a recurring (well insofar as you can be dead in Supernatural) and there'll be quite a bit of Dean whumping! Consider yourselves warned!  
**

Chapter Three

"So, home sweet home" John announces proudly the group of three reaches their destination. By now Dean (John still isn't used to thinking about the boy like that), is almost dead on his feet and John subconsciously reaches out a hand to steady him.

Dean angrily shrugs the arm away, and shuffles back a bit until he's out of touching distance.

_One step at a time, John, _the elder hunter thinks to himself, _one step at a time._

"So, what do you think?" he asks, trying to keep the conversation light. He has to admit, he's proud of his house. He and Bobby had built it together when they arrived at camp. That was six months after 'Gate' and resources hadn't been in such short supply. The house is built on stilts of cedar wood as the flat plains and muddy earth are conductive to flooding. The walls are constructed with a hotchpotch of bricks, cement and concrete that, while not exactly artistic, is sturdy and strong. A gap in the east wall serves as a glassless window with wooden shutters offering protection against the wind. The roof is a peaked piece of corrugated iron that makes a racket in the rain but at least stops them from getting soaked. Of course, the house had been meant for the Singer family too, not just the Winchesters, so there's plenty of space to spare. Sometimes John thinks there's a little too much. Compared to some of the hastily constructed huts and shelters it's a palace but every time John looks at it he longs for Kansas….and for his deceased friends.

"Well don't look too overwhelmed" he mutters sarcastically when he realises Dean still hasn't replied. Sam shoots him a withering look and John sighs, he's not used to having to choose his words around people.

"Whoop de frickin do" Dean replies with even more sarcasm and John chuckles, both at the reply and Sam's astonished expression. John moves to clap the elder boy on the shoulder and then thinks better of it.

"Maybe you'll like the inside better" Sam hints and John grins, unlocking the padlock and pushing open the wooden door. The lock seems somewhat useless since most people wouldn't dare steal from John Winchester but old habits die hard and there's always another man like Edwin out there, willing to push his luck.

The door opens straight into the lounge/kitchen area and John immediately flops into the armchair he and Bobby had salvaged from a deserted removal truck on the highway, along with pretty much everything in the house. Of course it hadn't taken the other hunters long to suspect something when he and Bobby kept wandering off to nowhere and returning with random items of furniture and soon the toppled removal truck had become a good natured battlefield with hunters fighting over tables and bookshelves instead of demons.

Still, he and Bobby had come out pretty well with a table, sofa, two mattresses and a couple of mismatched dining chairs. The aid supplies from the army had supplied them with blankets and some basic hygiene products along with some food rations and the means to heat them.

"Not bad, huh?" John gins as he watches Dean take everything in and then shrug.

"Whatever."

"Tough to please, aren't ya?" John scowls. Considering the life the kid has come from, he's surprised there isn't even a hint of relief at these new surroundings.

"Stop rubbing it in, you old bastard!" Dean almost-yells at him, taking him completely by surprise. John can see the kid's started trembling again but he can't figure out what's made him so upset and, by the looks of things, neither can Sam.

"Dea-"

"I heard what Edwin told you! I know you're just gonna chain me outside anyway!" Dean's fists are clenched but he looks and sounds more vulnerable than ever.

"I don't wanna see this…" He mumbles wearily, fighting back tears of rage and helplessness.

John wants to throw up. Throw up and then go back to Edwin's corpse and shoot the bastard again. "Sam…Sam, show Dean the room he'll be sharing with you" he manages to choke out, hoping his usually stubborn son will take the hint and give him a minute to calm down.

"Sure, Dad" Sam replies and John can tell he's shaken up too.

_Not half as shaken up as he's going to be when you break the news to him, _John thinks. Well that can wait, for now the main concern has to be Dean. John just hopes it's not a lost cause.

"Show Dean the room he'll be sharing with you…"

* * *

The words echo in Dean's head as he follows the younger of his two owners out of the room. He's so weary, the thought of a night in the warmth is like heaven but he knows better than to hope. People aren't kind to you without a catch and it doesn't take a genius to realise what this catch is gonna be.

"I'd rather be chained outside than locked in with a perv" he snarls, manifesting his fear the only way he knows how. "Don't think I'm just gonna lay down and spread my legs for you, you sick fuck."

His voice cracks halfway through his speech and he hates himself for it. Hates himself for being afraid in the first place.

"What?!"

Dean can't help but jump at the loudness of Sam's voice and he cringes expecting a slap. Instead he feels tentative fingers under his chin, lifting his head up until he's forced to make eye contact.

"Dean..no. Listen…"

Sam's fumbling attempts at speech are a far cry from the vicious tirade Dean was expecting. Heck the guy's even blushing! Still, Dean yanks his head awake from the unwelcome contact, it hurts to move so suddenly but he ignores it.

"Dean, that's not gonna happen, okay?" Sam finally finds his voice, "I-I'm not. Well I don't…"

Dean almost laughs at this; he doesn't think he's ever seen someone so embarrassed before, but he knows better than to piss this guy off.

_Just because he isn't going to fuck you doesn't mean you're not headed for a world of pain._

"I know it's probably hard to believe but, Dad and I, we don't buy into this whole trafficking thing. In fact, we…we kinda hate it" Sam admits with a shrug and Dean raises an inquisitive eyebrow. His memories drift back to earlier in the day, to Sam standing up for him. It's hard to believe there are people like that out there.

_It's a trap, you idiot, _a voice in his head warns. _Hunters, they're all the same, they don't change. _And because it's somehow less scary to believe that than it is to hope things might be different this time, he does, schooling his features back into a harsh mask of indifference.

"Yeah, good for you" he jeers watching as the grin on Sam's face fades. Surprisingly, this upsets him more than it does amuse.

_Getting soft, Dean. _That voice again – survival instinct. _Don't forget - the older one knew your name. You can't relax here. Relax and you're dead. Trust them and you're dead. You have to stay sharp!_

But he's so damned tired and in so much pain and there's a mattress and blanket there on the floor just waiting for him to curl up on.

"Go ahead, take a nap" Sam encourages and Dean realises he must have been staring and he kicks himself.

"Like I said – I'd rather sleep outside than with a perv!" Dean has to force the words past a lump in his throat.

"Sleep where you want" Sam shrugs, his voice calm and neutral. "Either way, I'll be in the other room with Dad."

And then he leaves and Dean is completely confused. This can't be for real.

_But what if it is? _Another voice now - the part of him that longs for some kind of safety. The part of him that has foolish daydreams of Edwin being pleased with his work and deciding not to beat the crap out of him. The part of him that runs his hand over the letters carved into his arm and dreams that one day someone will come and find him, just like they promised. The part of him that Dean forces himself to ignore.

He spends a minute or so staunchly **not **lying on the mattress, as if to prove he doesn't need any comfort before finally giving in and dragging it as far away from the door as possible (not far in the tiny room) and then curling up with his back to the wall.

_Just a few minutes to get your strength back, _he promises himself as his one functioning eye drifts closed. _Just a few minutes and then you can figure out what the hell you're gonna do._

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**AN: So I tried to keep everyone in character as much as possible considering. Just so you know, these chapters might not come so fast next week when I'm back at work XD.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

John washes the taste of bile out of his mouth and spits the water onto the floor outside. He can still hear Sam talking and he's so proud of his youngest son for handling the situation so calmly when John would have flown off the handle. It's a bit of a role-reversal for them but someone getting angry is probably the last thing Dean needs right now. Still, John doubts Sam will be so calm in a few minutes time when he tells him the secret he's kept from him for twenty years.

As John walks back into the living room, he sees Sam coming out of the adjoining bedroom. He looks as shocked and disturbed as John feels.

"How is he?" the elder man asks, not wanting to bring up what he's just heard.

"He's pissed off," Sam replies with a humourless chuckle. After a pause he adds what John has been thinking "And scared."

John simply runs a hand across his eyes and over the stubble on his face. This is either the best or the worst day of his life and the fact that he can't decide just shows how truly fucked up this situation is.

"Dad?" Sam's voice is uncertain, nervous, and worst of all for John, curious. "What are we going to do with him?"

"What do you mean?" John's stalling for time but he knows Sam's far too smart and curious to fall for that.

"What I **mean** is that there's some random guy in my bedroom who doesn't even want to be here. For all we know he could be some crazy sent to murder us in our sleep and we're not doing anything about it!"

John rolls his eyes at this, which only infuriates his son more.

"I'm serious! We don't owe this guy anything. We sure as Hell aren't using him as 'bait'. We can't afford to keep him…."

"What are you saying, Sam?" Now John's getting pissed, too. "What do **you **suggest we do then?"

"Let him go!" Sam replies angrily, only his eyes betraying his uncertainty.

"Go on, then." John's voice is hard, tough and it hurts him to call his son's bluff like this but, if John Winchester knows his youngest son like he thinks he does, then his eldest shouldn't be in any danger.

"What?"

"Go and tell him you want him out." John folds his arms across his chest to show he isn't budging on this one. Well…Sam had to have picked up his stubbornness from somewhere.

"…He's asleep." Sam falters and, even though John's cheering on the inside, he keeps his face neutral and apathetic.

"Yeah – on your mattress. If it's such a big deal to you, go and tell him to get out."

Sam raises his eyes to meet John's in anger, as though he can tell what his father is doing. John meets the stare evenly and Sam scowls before backing down. It's a rare moment of victory for John as his son seems to be getting more and more rebellious as the years go on and these little wins are becoming few and far between for the elder man.

"Look, Sam, I know what you're saying." John keeps his voice calm and understanding as he moves to the couch, his anger behind him. "But I have my reasons for this and-."

As he predicted, Sam opens his mouth to protest and John raises his hands placatingly.

"And I'm going to tell you them now." John finishes firmly, beckoning for Sam to join him on the couch.

It's been a while since they did anything resembling a father-son chat and John feels embarrassingly choked by the emotion of it. He _should _have done this many times, with _both_ his sons. There should have been the first day of school, the tooth fairy, the first bike ride, the first girlfriend, the 'talk'. He hates that he's been denied that because the world went to hell in a hand basket all down to some idiots biting off more than they can chew. Hates that _neither _of his sons even know what they're missing.

"Sammy, there's something that I've never told you." John is actually longing for Sam to interrupt just so he could delay the inevitable for a few more seconds.

"Sam…that boy in there. He's not just 'some guy' he…"John takes a breath to steel himself, "He's your brother, Sam."

For once, Sam is speechless. For once, John wishes he wasn't.

"B-but I don't have-." Sam sounds dazed and John can't blame him. He wishes there'd been an easier way to break the news.

The hunter reaches into what's left of his wallet. There's no money in there any more, the dollars that used to dictate John's life are now little more than useless scraps of paper. No, what John wants is the battered old photograph he keeps there. A tiny passport-sized picture of his family, taken 24 years ago. He and Mary, along with 4 year old Dean and baby Sammy crushed into a photo booth, laughing at the silliness of it. Four-year-old Dean is grinning wickedly at Mummy and Daddy acting 'naughty'. Four-year-old Dean is the reason John has never shown the picture to Sam so the boy could see what his mother looked like.

Well he does now, passing the tiny picture wordlessly over to Sam, who looks at it in confusion. It hurts John to think that two out of the three other people in that photo are strangers to his boy.

"No." Sam is shaking his head now in denial and then comes the inevitable onslaught of questions John had been expecting. "How can I have a brother? Why didn't we grow up together? I would remember having a brother if I'd had one. Why didn't you tell me before? Why didn't we look for him?"

"Sam, please." John sighs. "Not now."

Sam narrows his eyes and John simply shakes his head. Sam's still glaring but he seems to relent a little. Still, that look just screams 'don't think you're off the hook' and John wearily nods his acknowledgement.

"Dad, how do know you it's him?" Sam's voice is soft now, as if he realises that for once, John Winchester needs someone to be gentle with his feelings. As the initial shock wears off, he begins to realise just how awful his father must be feeling.

John turns to look at the boy straight in the eye. "I saw him and I knew," he replies simply. "I just knew. I tried to convince myself otherwise but Edwin confirmed it." John is shaking now and for once he doesn't care about showing weakness in front of his son.

"Dad…" Sam places a hand on his dad's shoulder. It feels kind of awkward since Sam can't ever remember his father being comforted before, but he ignores the feeling. His Dad is finally showing some vulnerability and after everything, the least Sam can do is respect that and do what he can to make things right.

"I **tried **to find him, Sam, I **did**. I looked all over, for _years_ – _**everywhere**_! But…no one knew anything and…I-I tried every spell, anything I could think of, but I had to think of you, Sammy. I had to keep you safe, too, and…"

"It's alright…" Sam replies quietly, astounded by his father's outburst. "I understand."

"It's not alright, Sam. Go look at your brother half-dead in the next room and tell me this is alright," John's nearly shouting now, not from anger but from the goddamn unfairness of it all.

"Okay," Sam acknowledges. "It's not alright but…you can't sit here and blame yourself. You did the best you could and feeling guilty won't help anything."

"I know it won't help, Sam," John replies, looking to the door of the bedroom and thinking of the battered body of his son, currently asleep in there, "But I also know that I can never forgive myself."

**AN: So it's an AU but John and Sam are still gonna be butting heads right? Lol. Tried to keep them in character as best I could including some 'gruelling' (yeah right) research watching IMToD. Hope you liked.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: okay folks, a fair bit of hurt!Dean/scared!Dean in this chapter. **

Chapter Five

Sam groans as he wakes up from his nap and his muscles groan even louder. He's way too tall to be sleeping on this couch. That thought triggers the memory of why he's there in the first place and he tenses up momentarily.

_My brother…_

It feels very weird to think about but also kind of exciting – Sam's always wanted a brother, someone to stand up to Dad with him. Maybe, when Dean's better, he'll have someone to fight in his corner.

_If he hasn't bolted by now that is, _Sam thinks. This panic-inducing thought encourages him off the sofa and towards his bedroom where, after a moment of deliberation, he knocks on the door. There's no reply and Sam's brain goes into overdrive.

_Shit, he's gone! He's bolted! Dad's gonna lose it._

In his desperate panic he flings the door open, only to find the cause of his panic curled up in a harmless ball, still asleep. Well, on second thought, probably not so 'harmless'. One of the guy's arms is curled up to his chest, the other draped almost protectively across his head. His knees are drawn up to his stomach although one leg is much higher than the other which just doesn't look quite _right _to Sam. The compact, defensive position is a far cry from how Sam had awoken, sprawled in an ungainly heap on the couch.

_Do you ever feel safe? _he silently questions his brother, already pretty sure of the answer.

As he scans over the sleeping form again, Sam wonders if now might be a good time to check for injuries and then considers how Dean would react to someone prodding him in his sleep and thinks better of it. Probably best to wake him up first.

"Dean?" he calls out gently, not wanting to spook the older man. Nevertheless, Dean's eyes fly open at even that gentle coaxing. Well, _one_ eye flies open; the other is still too swollen for Dean to open it further than a slit.

The elder man is pressed up against the wall, still seated on the mattress and Sam can't help but watch the faster-than-normal rising and falling of his chest under the baggy sweater. Dean seems to notice him watching and glares up at him defensively.

"You said I could sleep," his tone is almost accusing, but mainly just afraid. The guy doesn't _sound_ pissed off at being woken up, Sam notes, but he can't think of any other reason for Dean's anger. "Y-you can't punish me - you said I was allowed to take a nap!"

_Okay…what the fuck? _Sam definitely hadn't seen **that **one coming.

"Erm…what?" The younger man tries to coordinate his stunned mind with his mouth and fails spectacularly.

_Smooth, Sam, real smooth_.

"Dean…I-I'm not gonna...Just…no." Sam shakes his head and gives up on the whole 'talking' thing for the time being. Dean is still glaring suspiciously at him from the back of the room, although he's pulled himself to a standing position now.

"I'm sorry I woke you up. I know you're probably still tired, but…uh, I thought you might be hungry." Attempt-at-speech number three proves more successful for the younger Winchester, probably because he's doing his best _not _to think of the horror of what Dean's just said.

At the mention of hunger, Dean's stomach rumbles so loudly that Sam can hear it even a metre or so away. Despite this, the guy folds his arms and does his best to meet Sam's eyes with a defiant stare.

"No, I'm not."

Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at his brother's pig-headedness. Still, he's rapidly learning that direct confrontation isn't the way to deal with Dean – the older man has had a lifetime of dealing with that type of interaction. He's beginning to understand now that Dean's not being deliberately awkward; his brother simply doesn't know how else to react to how very afraid he is. Sam can't begrudge him that; after all, what kind of a world did Dean grow up in, where even being hungry was a weakness you couldn't admit?

"Well, I sure am," Sam continues the conversation, keeping things light, just like his father had done outside the house, "So since I'm cooking anyway…"

He lets the sentence hang, hoping Dean will grasp the meaning. After a second or so, he seems to understand, giving that half-shrug again.

"Whatever."

_Whatever…_ Sam muses with a rueful shake of his head. _It's a start._

* * *

When Dean re-enters the living area, he's shocked to see the older of his two owners sitting at a campfire stove, cooking. Edwin had never cooked for himself, having plenty of underlings to do that for him, he remembers. Dean had never been one of them, though, since Edwin always told him that he didn't trust Dean not to help himself and 'no monster's going to want meat with fat on it are they?'. That hadn't stopped him encouraging his staff to eat their meals in front of him though. Dean could still remember the slimy man explaining the situation to a young black hunter who once questioned the point of his orders.

"I like them hungry," Edwin had smirked. "It keeps them on their toes."

Dean shivers at the memory and lets the gnawing pain in his stomach ground him in the present. He's probably going have to jump through a load of hoops before he gets this food and he can't afford to miss an order.

"How long since you last ate, kid?" John asks and Dean falters - what kind of a question is that?

When John continues to stare at him Dean shrugs. Well, he tries to - his right hand still frickin' hurts and he doesn't want to move any part of that appendage more than he has to.

"Did you eat before we met you yesterday?" the younger one, Sam, asks and Dean shakes his head. Why the hell are they asking this? It's creeping him out.

"What the hell is this, an inquisition?" His stomach grumbles again as he speaks, completely ruining his attempt at sounding not-bothered.

"The day before?" Sam actually sounds worried now and Dean thinks he'd better answer as best he can before these guys change their minds about feeding him.

"I-I dunno," he starts. "Not yesterday because Edwin was getting ready for you guys. Not the day before cos I…"

Dean pauses for a minute remembering how he'd screwed up the drill. The hunter from his earlier thoughts had been teaching him how to lay foothold traps and Dean's hand had got caught in one. Luckily for him, the hunter, Walker, had pulled his hand free quickly, so it was only lacerated, not broken. Still Edwin hadn't been happy and hence…

"Not the day before because I didn't deserve it."

Dean is staring at the floor as he speaks so he doesn't notice the looks of horror and fury on the faces of the two other men in the room.

"And then the day before that I didn't eat cos I already got fed the day before _that_." Dean feels almost triumphant as he looks up and answers. "So four days ago! Well…three nights." He holds up four fingers and then three, hoping what he's said is okay.

There's a stunned silence in the room and Dean curses internally. What the hell has he done to piss everyone off _this _time?

_Why the fuck can't you just do something right for once?_ he berates himself. He's already light-headed and weary from lack of food and he just **can't **afford to screw up this opportunity. Even as he thinks this,the room seems to tilt a little and he stumbles a fraction as he tries to regain his balance.

"Sit down," John finally speaks and Dean looks to where the man is pointing.

"At the _table_?" The confused exclamation is out of his mouth before he can stop it and he quickly moves to obey, hoping that somehow, the man didn't notice his question.

"Dinner is served," Sam's voice cracks as he places the bowl of soup in front of Dean. Why the hell is the kid making jokes if he's upset? Why the hell he is upset anyway? Dean really doesn't get these guys…

From where he sits, hunched over the bowl of soup or broth or whatever it is, Dean glances out the corner of his eyes to the younger man, who's currently staring at his father with a look on his face like someone just slapped him.

"Weirdo…" Dean mutters under his breath, although he has to admit, this weirdo just gave him some damned nice soup.

* * *

John tries not to make it _too _obvious that he's staring at his son while he eats, but he's pretty convinced he's not doing a very good job. He's sent Sam out for supplies, knowing the boy needs some time alone to think, but now he kind of wishes he'd sent himself instead. Still, Dean is so absorbed in his food that he doubts the kid would notice if John was breathing down his neck.

His son has one arm curled protectively across the chipped bowl, hugging it close to him. The other hand is spooning the soup, a little clumsily, into his mouth.

"Don't eat it so fast, you'll be sick," John admonishes.

Since learning of how little food Dean has had in the past week, he's glad he chose something light for the boy to eat. The portion probably won't make him feel even a little full but, as much as it pains him to see his son looking like some street-kid, he has a responsibility.

Dean shoots him an irritated glare in response which quickly softens into a look of fear and apology. Now that the boy's got something that can be taken away, he obviously doesn't want to push his luck.

John nods in approval when Dean begins to eat at a slightly slower rate, knowing how hard it must be for the starving boy.

"In a few hours you can have some more, okay?" he explains. His heart is breaking at Dean's wary look and tentative nod and he almost thinks he's gotten through to the boy before that defensive mask is back and there's that half-shrug again.

"Whatever."

John just chuckles quietly to himself as his son turns back to the food, which he clearly finds more interesting than John himself.

_If feeding the boy is this much of an ordeal, how hard is the rest of it going to be?_

* * *

**AN: Okay, so I haven't got a day off for about two weeks now so updates will probably slow down a bit now, sorry guys! **


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: More Dean whumping again.**

Chapter Six

John watches as Dean dabs at the empty bowl with his finger, trying to find any last drops of soup he might have missed. John feels like a bastard knowing there's a pan-full just ready to be re-heated, but at the same time he knows he's going to have to be cruel to be kind.

_Well, I'm sure Dean thinks you're a bastard, too, _he thinks as the boy's stomach grumbles.

The elder hunter is just about to open his mouth to explain again that Dean can have more later, but Dean speaks up before he has the chance.

"Thanks, Sir."

For once the kid doesn't sound angry or afraid, although John notes there's still a hint of suspicion in his tone. He won't look at John, as though he's embarrassed and John suspects that saying 'thanks' is a pretty big deal to Dean.

"Not a problem, son." He speaks the moniker automatically, only realising what he's done when he notices the shocked expression on Dean's face. Does the boy _know_? Does he even remember his own father? Or is it just a normal reaction to being called something other than 'bait' or 'meat' or whatever else Edwin took a fancy to? John doesn't have the energy to deal with the situation just yet and he doubts Dean is in a good enough state of mind to handle it either.

No, John decides to wait until Dean feels a little bit safer, and is a little bit more trusting.

_One step at a time_, he repeats to himself again – it's fast becoming his motto.

"C'mon, sit on the couch and we'll take a look at those wounds, okay?" John's still trying to keep that note of calm and optimism in his voice. It doesn't work as well as he'd hoped as Dean immediately pales and that damned trembling is back. Still the boy shuffles to the couch as per his orders, perching on the edge of the seat at the end furthest away from John.

John pretends not to notice and walks the extra few steps before crouching down so he's eye to eye with his eldest. As he scans his eyes over his son's battered and bloody body, John wonders where he's even meant to start.

"They aren't all my fault…"

It's a good thing John's only inches away or else he wouldn't have heard the quiet admission.

"What do you mean, Dean?" he asks as he fumbles in the first aid kit. He's totally forgotten what he's even looking for, but he needs something to stop his hands from curling into fists.

"I-I wasn't careless all the time. Edwin gave me some of them…" Dean lifts his left hand as if to point at his black eye before thinking better of it and letting it fall into his lap. John pretends not to notice.

"Did he now?" For the first time, John regrets shooting Jeremy Edwin – he wishes he'd tortured the bastard to death instead.

"Press this against your eye," John orders, not trusting himself to speak much more lest he fly into some rant and spook his son.

Dean's eyes widen in surprise as he takes the cool-pack. "It's cold," he comments, like he's never even seen one. Somehow, it doesn't surprise John that he hasn't.

"It'll take the swelling down a little," John explains before looking straight into Dean eyes. From what he's seen, he knows **this **is going to be a challenge.

"Dean, I need you to tell me where it hurts," he uses his best no-nonsense-Dad tone of voice but it's not enough to faze a boy who grew up around evil bastards like Edwin.

"It doesn't. I'm fine."

"Dean…" John starts exasperatedly. He's _really _not in the mood to deal with Dean's tough-guy act right now and he wants to get his son at least partly patched up and in the shower before Sam gets home and sees the wounds John just _knows _are there.

"Dean, drop the act. Just tell me where you're in pain." Firmer now, John accentuates the words.

"No…where." Equally as firm.

"Dean, I just want to _help _you," John switches tactics, slowly latching on to what his younger son has already realised. "Let me help you. Tell me where you're hurt."

"I don't want your help!" Dean scowls, pushing John's concerned hand away from where it's hovering near his face. "I didn't _ask _for it!"

"That doesn't mean you don't need it," John insists, trying his best to keep calm when he feels torn between holding his son in his arms and throttling the stubborn boy. "Now let's get this over with, huh?"

"Piss off, you ugly old git!"

Getting John to lose his cool is exactly what Dean seems to be aiming for andJohn frowns as he tries to figure out Dean's sudden revert to form. He'd thought they were making progress, in fact, he's almost _sure _they were. The elder man thinks back to the other times he's seen Dean lash out like this and even though he's no shrink, it doesn't take long for him to figure it out.

_What the heck has spooked him this time?_

"I don't want your frickin 'ice-pack'!" Dean continues to rant, throwing the offending item across the room and John shakes his head in frustration.

"That's enough!" For the first time, he raises his voice to his eldest son and the result is instantaneous and horrifying. The colour immediately drains from Dean's face and his hands are shaking in his lap. His green eyes, which had just seconds ago been staring holes into John, drop to stare at the floor and in fact, Dean's whole head is lowered.

"I'm sorry," he whispers so quietly John wonders if he was meant to hear it or not.

"Dean…" he starts gently, cupping his son's cheek in his hand.

Dean jerks his head back sharply from the touch and in the silent room John can hear his son's rapid breathing. Sensing he's at the brink of something important, John moves his hand again and brushes it over Dean's bruised and scraped skin before letting it drop back to his side.

"It's alright…" he soothes. "Look at me."

Dean obeys and lifts his gaze, looking at the side of John's head.

"I didn't mean to scare you," John continues, begging his voice not to break, "But you're sick, alright? You're very hurt and I want you to get better." John's voice is as soft as he can make it as he tries to get through to his traumatised, terrified son.

"What's made you so scared, Dean?" he continues when the anger he was expecting doesn't come and he watches as Dean grits his teeth – trying and failing to look intimidating. To John he looks just like a scared little boy – _his _scared little boy.

"I hate it…"

Dean's voice is quiet and John can tell he's fighting back tears.

"Hate what?" he coaxes.

"Just…just waitin' for you guys to start hurting me!" Dean sobs. "Just do it already! I don't like all these games…pretending like you give a shit…" Dean's voice is scornful but sorrowful, too. "Please just do it already.

"Dean, I will **never **hurt you," John insists. "I know you won't believe me just yet, but you're safe now and me and Sammy both care about you. All we want is for you to get better."

John runs a hand through his son's scruffy, matted hair, cringing internally when his hand comes back speckled with flakes of dried blood.

"Won't you tell me where it hurts, Dean?" he pleads, feeling his heart begin to break. It's only when Dean replies that it really shatters though, the one soft admission doing what two decades of hunting never could.

"Everywhere…"

Dean seems to perk up after that, holding still while John stitches the gash in his head and only giving the tiniest flinch of pain when the cuts on his face are disinfected and cleansed.

"Well, that thick head of yours is taken care of," John jokes kindly. Dean doesn't reply, his eyes distant and dull, and John smiles sadly,

"Tired, kiddo?"

Dean startles at this and quickly shakes his head. "No!"

John doesn't comment on the obvious lie. He knows he can't _force _Dean to feel safe. but at times like this, he can't help but wish he had some way to make everything alright.

_Like you could ever make up for what you did..._ a voice in the back of his mind hisses and the hunter grits his teeth. Guilt isn't going to help Dean right now.

"Well, I sure am," John continues, partly to drown out his own thoughts and partly to try and relax his son, who's still sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the sofa.

If anything, Dean actually looks worse at that. His left hand curls into a fist in his denim jeans and his eyes are desperately searching John's face for something. John frowns at this. Trying to have an ordinary conversation with Dean is like trying to get through a minefield unscathed, seemingly almost everything having a negative connotation for the boy.

_And whose fault is it that he had to grow up to be like that?_

"D-do you want me to get off the sofa?" Dean asks, interrupting John's guilt-trip and John's frown deepens.

"No…," he replies confusedly, wondering where the heck Dean got that idea from.

"Then…do you want me t-to bring the mattress in here?" Dean's voice has gone from confused to nervous and John's brain is on overdrive trying to figure out why.

_What the Hell is going on in that head of yours, Dean?_

"No, Dean, I don't…What gave you that idea?"

Dean immediately lowers his eyes in that subservient 'I'm-looking-at-the-floor, look-how-sorry-I-am, please-don't-hit-me' gesture that John has so grown to hate.

"I'm not angry," John explains. "I just want to understand."

"I…you said you were tired," Dean begins nervously. "I-I thought you wanted me to do something about it."

John's too stunned to reply. How could Dean interpret something so simple as he saying he was tired as an order for him to follow? Time to add small-talk, along with sleeping inside, eating at a table and medical treatment, to his mental list of 'Things Dean Winchester Isn't Used To'.

"Well, come on! How was I supposed to know what you wanted?!" Dean's voice is half-angry, half pleading as he hesitantly raises his gaze to look at John.

And then his expression shifts to something that looks more like scorn than anger. His voice is bitter and cynical as he speaks.

"I know you're new at this and all, but…you don't have to make excuses to hit me, you know, no one will care."

John speaks before engaging his brain just so he doesn't have to _think _about what his son just said. How could this boy actually make him feel any guiltier than he already felt?!

"For the love of God, Dean, I'm not going to hit you!" the elder man barks. He's just got too much anger to keep inside him any longer and he's too stunned to think of holding back.

Dean flinches back automatically at this.

"Shit…" John curses, running a hand through his hair. After hours of keeping calm, how could he have lost control like that? Doesn't he _owe _it to Dean to be nice to him after everything?

"Dean…" he starts, almost flinching himself at the sullen anger on Dean's face.

_Oh, fuck it. _What the hell can he say to make things right _now_? What's the point in even trying?

_After everything Dean's been through, you couldn't even manage to be gentle to the boy for an hour or so._

"I'm a bastard."

"Yeah, you are…Sir," Dean agrees with a sarcastic smirk, but John's too absorbed in self-loathing and guilt to rise to Dean's goading. The only emotion Dean's bravado manages to inspire in him is pity.

"I-I'm sorry." If there was ever a bigger understatement, John doesn't think he's heard it.

"I don't give a shit what you are."

_Back to square one_, the elder man thinks as he watches Dean glower at him through eyes blazing with fear.

"Shit, Dean, I can't do this," he sighs. John knows himself well enough to know that if he doesn't get out of there, he's going to lose it and do something he'll really regret.

"J-just stay there," he orders his bewildered son as he stands up. Compared to his towering form, Dean looks tiny huddled in the corner of the sofa, afraid of his own father.

"Just wait there. I-I need a minute…" John stammers ineffectually as he walks away. He can feel Dean's eyes staring at his retreating back as he walks across the room. He wonders if the boy is scared or relieved by his retreat.

_Can't wonder that much, can you, John? _The voice in the back of his mind hisses. _Or is your son just not worth turning around for?_

As the hunter slams the door to his bedroom and slides down it until he's seated against the floor, he's never felt like more of a failure. It feels like Jeremy Edwin has broken two Winchesters and John doesn't feel like either of them will ever be okay again.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Sam!"

Sam stops walking at the sound of the voice and his face breaks into a grin as he sees his old friend walking towards him.

"Pastor Jim!" he grins, closing the distance between himself and the older man. It's such a relief to have someone else to talk to other than his father and Dean. Even though it's only been a day or so since he last did it, it feels great to walk into the hub of the camp and away from that house.

"Where've you been hiding, son?" Jim claps Sam affectionately on the back as the pair begins to walk. "I thought you'd have been out celebrating. Killing old Yellow Eyes, that was quite a feat."

"Well, we uh…" Sam bites down on his lip nervously. Dad hadn't said anything about _not _telling people that Dean had been found and Pastor Jim is one of their oldest and most longstanding friends. He'll surely want to know Dad has another son.

"Something kind of came up," Sam begins cautiously before clearing his throat and continuing seriously. "Pastor Jim, did you know I had a brother?"

At this, Pastor Jim's elderly face darkens briefly, flashing surprise and confusion before, finally, resignation.

"So John finally told you, huh?"

Sam has to hide his disbelief at this. Dad had told Pastor Jim and not Sam himself?!

"I told him he should have done it years ago…" the cleric continues, "but I think he just wanted to forget."

"How could he 'forget' I had a brother?" Sam demands. "I can't believe Dad could just give up on Dean like he did! Surely he could have found him quicker than twenty years!"

"He found him?" Pastor Jim sounds gobsmacked and Sam blushes as he realises he's forgotten to admit that bit.

"Uh, yeah…he's alive," Sam adds, figuring _that_ might be an important detail, too. "But still!..."

"Now, Sam, do you really think your father would 'give up' on one of his sons?" Pastor Jim's voice is firm yet fair and Sam sighs at this and shakes his head.

"No," he reluctantly admits, shaking his head.

"Now, you know after 'Gate' the demons torched your house, right?"

Sam nods.

"There were four of you in that house, Sam, and only two people, and one corpse came out of there. Now, can you imagine, in the chaos after a Devil's Gate was opened, anyone stopping to help your father search for a missing boy?"

Sam sighed and, once again, reluctantly shook his head.

"Even those that would listen to a terrified, smoke-charred man with a baby told him that Dean must have died in the fire. But your Dad didn't give up. He went everywhere he could, still with you in his arms, showing everyone that damned Polaroid, but not a soul had seen your brother. And he _still _didn't give up, Sam."

Sam feels guilty for even assuming it as he listens to Pastor Jim speak.

"He travelled with you from camp to camp, still showing that picture to anyone and everyone and still getting nowhere. And eventually, it just wasn't safe to travel around anymore once the demons ran out of civilians to snack on. So your Dad came here, to Texas, to the biggest survivors' camp there is, thinking he'd have the best chance here, out of anywhere, of finding your brother. And, lo and behold," Pastor Jim smiles sadly, "he was right. He found him."

"Wow…" Sam runs a hand through his hair as he tries to take in this onslaught of information.

"Sam, you've lived in this camp pretty much your whole life. It's hard for you to understand the vastness of the country, the continent we live on, when the furthest you can remember travelling is two miles out of the boundaries to face Azazel. It's hard for you to even comprehend the odds your father was up against."

Sam bristles at this and Pastor Jim laughs good naturedly.

"I'm not getting at you, son," he placates. "Just giving you something to think about before you start giving that father of yours a hard time."

"I think Dean's doing that enough for the both of us," Sam half jokes, not knowing how accurate his words really are.

"Tell me, Sam." Pastor Jim looks Sam in the eyes. "How is he?"

Sam wonders how exactly he's supposed to sum up his angry, terrified, injured, malnourished, abused, screwed-up big brother to Pastor Jim.

"He's just…broken," Sam sighs sadly. "What they did him…"

"Alright, son, alright…" Pastor Jim soothes, "Don't you go getting upset now. I'm guessing your Dad sent you out for supplies?" the elder man continues as the huge warehouse that serves as the centre hub of the camp comes into view.

"Yeah," Sam nods, frowning when the pastor presses something into his hands – ration coupons.

"Pastor Jim, you can't!" he protests, watching as Pastor Jim turns to walk away.

"Yes, I can and I want to. Tell your father to come and see me. Don't let him struggle with this on his own."

"R-right," Sam agrees.

"And don't forget to register your brother! You can't go living off my tokens forever!" Pastor Jim has to shout as he walks further into the distance and Sam doesn't bother to reply. Now that he's got the tokens, he knows exactly what he's going to buy. In fact, for once in his life, he's actually looking forward to going shopping.

* * *

If Sam is honest, he's almost forgotten about defeating Azazel. His long lost brother has quickly taken priority over that. The camp, on the other hand, hasn't had a long lost brother to worry about and Sam is constantly being patted on the back and congratulated as he walks through camp.

Leading up to the warehouse is a road flanked by huts and stalls of people selling their belongings, hoping to get a higher price than those inside would offer them. Sam browses the stalls half-heartedly, rapidly scanning past pans with holes in them, battered old picture frames and depleted batteries. As he passes, the odd trader here and there will toss him something with a cry of 'nice one, Sam' or 'score one for the humans'. Sam accepts the gifts graciously even if he's got no idea what he's going to do with most of it.

It's the last gift that really catches his eye and he can't help but stop walking, even as he catches it in one hand with ease.

"What's this?" he asks, as he turns to the man who's given it to him.

He's an elderly hunter, older even than Pastor Jim, with about a fortnight's growth of stubble on his wrinkly face and dark bags under his eyes. To Sam, the man doesn't look like he can afford to give away anything.

"It's for protection," the man explains, his tone bitter and sarcastic. "Didn't do much for our family, though."

Sam holds the amulet up to the dim sun in an attempt to see it in a better light. The sky, thick with smoke and ash, blocks out most of the light, but there's enough that the golden pendant glimmers briefly as it swings on the chain.

And then, Sam looks past the amulet and sees the three unmistakably shaped lumps covered by tarpaulin sheets on the ground behind the man's house.

"Yeah," the hunter growls, tears welling up in his narrowed eyes, "it don't work so well against sickness, apparently."

"Thank you," Sam replies solemnly. "I'm sorry about…"

The man simply shakes his head and sits down on the ground behind his stall and Sam continues on, slipping the amulet into his pocket. Suddenly, being away from his safe house and family isn't so exciting to the young man, after all.

* * *

By the time Sam's packed his bag with all the supplies he can think of, he's looking forward to going home and seeing his brother again. Even though the man is basically a stranger to him, Sam already feels a sense of attachment and protectiveness towards his older brother. Or maybe he just doesn't feel so alone any more?

Either way, he walks quickly up to the registration desk in the middle of the huge warehouse. It has two of the five computers in the camp and a large leather-bound book detailing the name and status of each household in the camp, along with their possessions, in order to help with rationing.

It's a system that took a long time to work out but, now that it's here, it works surprisingly well for a society ruled by hunters. Or, at that moment, Sam thinks it does.

"Why, it's Sammy Winchester!" the clerk at the desk greets him enthusiastically, taking Sam by surprise. Sam's not seen the man staffing the desk before and he's sure he would have had the guy been there previously – with a shock of tangled ginger hair, beady green eyes and being probably the only man in the camp who is overweight, even if it is only by a few pounds, the man is hard to miss.

"It's 'Sam'," he replies pointedly and the clerk simply laughs.

"Sure, Sammy – what can I do for you?"

"I need to register a new addition to the household," Sam explains. He's subconsciously running the amulet from earlier in between his thumb and forefinger of his left hand, which is nestled in his pocket.

The clerk raises his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

Sam simply stares back; he's not in the mood for conversation, especially not with this man.

"My brother," he finally adds, when the man doesn't speak again. "His name is Dean Winchester."

"Ah, Dean….the little lost Winchester, huh?" the man smiles a sick smile and Sam feels his hand curl into a fist around the golden pendant in his pocket.

"News travels fast here," the redhead continues and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Just add him to the roster," he orders.

"Well…it's gotta be said…your brother doesn't belong on _that _list, Sammy," the man leans forward across the desk, resting his head on his arched fingers, "Does he now?"

Sam is confused, pissed off and tired and so**not**in the mood for this. "What the Hell are you talking about?"

"Your brother isn't one of us any more, Sam." The man makes hard, uncompromising eye contact as he speaks, and his boldness takes Sam a little aback.

The young hunter briefly wishes his father was there and then quickly banishes that thought. If he wants to work on the judiciary, he has to learn to stand up to men like this.

"Your brother…is bait."

Sam freezes at this, feeling his entire body go cold apart from a fiery fury in his chest.

"He belongs on the inventory," the clerk continues and Sam feels both his hands curl into fists. His eyes are cold and deadly as he stares at the older man. He feels, for once, that perfect focus Dad has told him about so many times.

_Well_, he admits as a sharp pain lances through his head, _maybe not quite so perfect._

An image flashes in his mind, a flurry of motion and falling, and for a second Sam wonders if he actually _has _hit the man.

"My brother is a human being," Sam's words are cold and threatening. He wonders why he's even giving the man a second chance in the first place. "Put him on the roster."

"Your brother," the clerk matches Sam's tone and pace, his features carved into a distasteful sneer, "isn't worth the ink it would take to write his name."

And then Sam snaps. His fist flies forward before the seated, older man has a chance to react. The clerk tips off his chair at the force of the punch and Sam angrily snatches the pen off the desk, adding his brother's name to the hunters' roster with a flurry of rushed, impatient strokes.

He throws the pen angrily on the floor as he leaves, a manifestation of only the merest fraction of the rage he's feeling before turning and walking out of the door before anyone can react in time to stop him.

Like father, like son – he doesn't stick around to see if the man is still conscious before leaving.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi guys. There's more Dean!whumping and some Dean!abuse in this chapter -- Warning.**

Chapter Eight

By the time Sam has half-walked, half-stomped his way back to the house, most of his anger has dissipated. He's grateful for this as he knows Dean would instantly pick up on his mood and assume it was _him _Sam was angry with and that just wouldn't be productive.

After today's dealings, Sam feels like he understands, at least a little, where Dean has picked up that disturbing habit. Up until now, Dean's safety (or what classifies as safety for the older man) has relied on him being able to sense when someone is angry and either avoid them or try to appease them. Self-preservation at its simplest form…the logic is both astounding and sickening.

Sam's gone from merely welcoming his new brother to developing a striking admiration for the brave man. And that's only from seeing a fraction of what Dean has been through.

This thought cheers him as he pushes open the front door and he's halfway through announcing his arrival before his mind processes what he's seeing. Dean is sitting bunched up in a corner of the couch, his knees up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. A discarded first-aid kit lies at the base of the couch but Sam's father isn't anywhere in sight.

_What the hell is going on?_

"Dean?" Sam approaches him cautiously, alarmed at how still his brother is.

When he reaches the sofa he's relieved to see Dean's eyes move to look at him before looking at the floor.

"Dean, what's going on? Where's Dad?"

Dean swallows a lump in his throat before nodding in the direction of the bedroom.

"He went in there, Sir," he replies and Sam frowns in confusion, both at his father's absence and at Dean's honorific. He's not heard his brother use 'Sir' before, but he's sure it's not a good sign.

"I…I think I made him mad…," Dean adds in a foreboding whisper. "I don't know what I did, but please tell him I'm sorry."

That anger is coming back and Sam fights to keep it under control. What the hell was his Dad doing leaving Dean alone and terrified? God only knows what scenarios Dean's paranoid mind has been creating while the man's been away.

"I'm sure it wasn't you, Dean," he placates. "I'll go talk to him."

Sam's nearly at the door before he hears the timid voice, "…Sir?"

He's back at Dean's side in a matter of seconds – Dad can wait.

"I…"

Dean bites down on his lip nervously, almost as if he's working up the courage for something. His eyes keep glancing over Sam's face and hands, and the younger Winchester watches as his brother steels his wary gaze into a fixed, challenging stare. Slowly, Dean's limbs unfurl from their cramped positions, although, Sam notes, he doesn't look at all relaxed. The elder Winchester stops biting his lip and sets his face into that familiar sneer, tilting his head at a slight angle to finish off his aggressive stance.

It's like watching all of Dean's defensive barriers come up in slow motion and Sam longs for a middle ground between the terrified, timid Dean and the even more terrified aggressive Dean.

"Listen, I really need to piss so unless you want your pretty little couch messed up, is there any chance I can use the toilet?"

Sam finds it both interesting and a little bit amusing that Dean manages to make even a request to go to the bathroom sound like a threat. The abrupt change in personality is also a little jarring, but Sam tries to take it in stride. He hopes that by not reacting to Dean's aggression, the man will eventually realise he doesn't need to act that way anymore.

"Sure, Dean, I'll show you in," he replies cheerily.

Dean grimaces when he stands as his stiff limbs protest and Sam narrows his eyes...just how long has Dean been sitting there?

"I hope the water's working today," Sam continues amicably, trying to mask his growing anxiety.

"You have running water?" Dean questions curiously before he can stop himself.

Sam notices the way Dean tries to slow his pace in the hope of creating some distance between the two of them. Clearly, Edwin didn't appreciate questions. He pretends not to notice, however, and simply replies with a shrug.

"Sometimes."

And that, at least, isn't a deception. The Winchesters are lucky enough to have a toilet with a flush and a sort-of shower that John created. Both need to be pre-supplied with water. The shower simply uses the power of gravity to drag water through open valves in a pipe and the toilet has a basic flush connected to an underground channel.

Sam wishes they could come up with some way to recycle the water, although he's not sure if that's even possible. Could they do that in the old days? It's something he would usually have asked Dad. Today, however, they have other things to talk about.

"You can shower, too, if you want. There's a towel here," Sam tosses Dean a nearly threadbare towel. "Don't stay in too long and get cold," he adds as he turns to leave.

The cheery false-smile is wiped off his face the minute he closes the bathroom door. His furious eyes are set on the door to the bedroom and he advances on it like the hunter he is.

Sam wants an explanation and he wants it now.

* * *

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sam is back at the peak of his fury for the second time in less than an hour as he stares at the sight before him. John Winchester is sitting on the edge of his bed, his head held in his hands.

He looks up at Sam's entrance and the younger man is shocked to see red-rings around his father's eyes – John Winchester doesn't cry! And then that shock just turns to anger, swelling Sam's fury. After all, John Winchester isn't the one who needs sympathy – Dean is!

"What were you thinking leaving Dean alone out there? How long has he been on his own?" Sam demands, desperate to prompt a reaction from his near-emotionless father.

"It was too much, Sam."

John's voice is croaky and hoarse. Sam doesn't care.

"I had to get out of there," his father adds.

"No, you _had _to treat Dean's injuries!" Sam corrects. "He's in _pain_, Dad!" the young hunter yells when his father doesn't react.

"What he said, I-I couldn't take it. I had to get out of there."

John's tone is flat and empty and it's frustrating Sam beyond belief.

"Dean's hurt and scared and _**you **_can't take it?! What about Dean? Oh, that's right…Dean doesn't have a choice, does he?"

John simply drops his head back into his hands and Sam wants to scream.

"Do you even _care_?!"

"Sam, I'm here _because _I care."

John finally stands up and Sam feels triumphant.

"If I had stayed in there, I would have gotten angry. I had to leave."

The elder hunter doesn't even sound like he's convincing _himself _and Sam feels disgusted. Suddenly, he doesn't even want to be in the same _room _as his father.

"You're pathetic," he admonishes with a shake of his head as he turns to open the door.

"Oh, and by the way," the youngest Winchester adds as his hand curls round the handle, "Dean says he doesn't know what he's done but he's sorry."

And then, ignoring the involuntary gasp of shock and sorrow from his father, Sam walks out.

* * *

Dean shivers as he rubs his torso dry with the now damp towel. Man, that was cold! Not that he's complaining – he's _clean _for God's sake. So clean, in fact, he doesn't want to put his dirty sweater back on.

_Stop being a wuss_, he mocks himself, pulling the garment over his head before he has a chance to change his mind.

His arm twinges with pain at the movement and Dean wonders if maybe the trap has done more damage than he initially thought. His ribs decide to join his hand in screaming in pain and his back smarts as the harsh material brushes against it.

Alone in the little room and overwhelmed for a brief second, Dean allows himself a moment of weakness.

"…Ow…" His half-sob, half-whisper doesn't even echo in the barren room but Dean hates himself for the tiny admission.

_It doesn't hurt! _he chastises himself. _You've had worse – suck it up!_

And because the young man has no idea of what else there is to do, he does suck it up, pushing the pain into the back of his brain as best he can and wiping any signs of it off his face as he pushes open the bathroom door.

Sam is kneeling down near the couch, re-packing the first-aid box. Dean feels the stitches in his scalp twinge as he looks down and he briefly raises his hand to touch them. Thanks to these, he might not have a scar when he heals. At least, until the next time someone decides shoving him against a rack of knives is a good idea.

"Dean, hey."

Sam looks up and Dean is relieved he doesn't look too angry, although why the man is clearing up, he doesn't know. Was he meant to clean up the mess sooner? Or did Sam not trust him not to pocket some supplies? The younger man's behaviour is a little confusing…as usual.

"Did you finish showering already?"

Dean nods at this, water flying from his damp hair in a spray and dripping onto his bare feet.

"Feel better?" Sam prompts with a smile and Dean nods again. "Good, are you ready to get patched up?"

Dean shrugs, not at all sure what he should be doing or saying. Can't the guy just give him an order he can follow? Dean understands orders.

"Did you lose your voice in the shower?" Sam jokes, a concerned smile on his face, and Dean scowls. Is he being made fun of here?

"No," he pouts, searching and failing for some smart-ass remark. Nothing comes to mind and the young man curses internally - he's wasted too much time and now any remark is gonna sound lame and desperate.

Well, since he needs to say something, maybe it's as easy to tell the truth. "Last time I opened my mouth in this situation, it didn't go so well."

"I know …," Sam replies sympathetically. "It wasn't your fault."

"Sure it was," Dean argues sadly. "It always is."

"That's what they told you…," Sam observes. It should be a question, but he already knows the answer.

Dean moves to sit on the couch, avoiding Sam's sympathetic eyes and pitying stare as he does.

_Look at you, Dean…so pathetic even this whiny bitch feels sorry for you._

"You trying to tell me they were wrong?" he asks bitterly, looking across at Sam as the guy sits at the other end of the couch. It's a good distance, a safe distance, and for that, Dean is grateful.

"Trying," Sam replies with a nod, emphasising the word with a pointed yet gentle glare.

Dean avoids the look, staring at his feet. He wants to get mad, to piss the guy off enough so he'll beat the shit out of him and then he won't have to deal with these contradicting thoughts. If he starts thinking, he'll start hoping, and if he starts hoping, he'll start caring. Nuh-uh, Dean doesn't _do _caring.

As it is though, he's so damned tired and he's already got the old geezer pissed off at him, does he really want the younger one mad with him, too? Maybe it'll be alright not to be angry…just this once.

It feels strange to him to be sitting on a couch just…talking. Not only talking, but talking _with_ someone, a _hunter_, who doesn't seem to want to beat the crap out of him. It's a rare moment in Dean's life where there's no fear, no anger – he hates that he knows it won't last.

"Alright, let's get you fixed up," Sam suggests. "I promise I'm not gonna storm out like Dad did."

Dean freezes as he remembered what else the older man had done. Getting him to admit his fears, nearly making him _cry_….Dean is not at all proud of how he handled that situation and he's furious that he's letting himself fall into the same trap again.

"Yeah, whatever," he replies dismissively. Sam looks a little upset at his flippant remark and Dean smirks at the obvious show of weakness.

"Anything to stop this 'heart-to-heart' thing you've got going on. It's making me want to puke."

Score one, right in the weak spot. Dean focuses on that feeling of triumph and not the guilt gnawing at him. He doesn't do caring and he definitely doesn't do guilt - no heart-to-heart is going to change that.

"Well, I can't fix that," Sam jokes as he moves off the couch, "but if you're going to be sick, give me a warning so I can get out of the way."

Dean doesn't want to laugh even if he has to admit, the kid has some wit. Disturbed by this thinking, Dean schools his features into a scowl again.

"Now, take your shirt off," Sam speaks and Dean opens his mouth to show the kid a _real _wisecrack, "**Without** any of the trash talking…" Sam interrupts him, rolling his eyes.

For Sam, it's a playful jibe. For Dean, it's a little too close to home.

"_**Take your shirt off."**_

_**Dean can hear the swish of leather against chinos behind him and he knows, with sickening certainty, what's he's in for. He can't believe this…can't believe he's in for another beating, can't believe how fucking scared he is.**_

'_**You're eighteen now, a man, act like one!' he screams in his mind drowning out his fear.**_

"_**Just 'cos I'm legal now doesn't mean I swing tha-"**_

_**A fist in his kidneys cuts him off and he drops to the floor with the force of it. He's going to be pissing blood for a few days, at **_**least**_**, and…shit, it hurts!**_

"_**I don't want any of your backtalk, punk," Edwin sneers, leering over his curled form.**_

"_**Now take off your shirt." **_

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

Dean is momentarily disorientated by the flashback and he wonders why Edwin is looking concerned. Oh, crap, his shirt is still on. But…Edwin never looks 'concerned'. Dean blinks a few times, rubbing his eyes. Oh…Not Edwin, Sam. Sam _does _look concerned…a lot. That makes sense.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean doesn't answer, simply pulling his almost-ruined clothing off his torso. He can hear Sam clear as a bell through the thin material.

"Once we're done, you can go back to bed, or have some food firs-." Sam's breath catches in his throat before he can finish talking.

"Oh, God." and then the younger hunter does something he hasn't done in a long time. "Daaaaaaaaaaad!


	9. Chapter 9

******Warnings guys - this is going to be HEAVY. Dean!whump, psychological!harm, self!harm - be prepared!**

Chapter Nine

John Winchester bolts awake at his son's cry and he instinctively grabs the gun under his pillow before rushing out the door. Despite his earlier outburst and the argument he's just had with his youngest, he has no hesitation about going out there to help his son. In this world, he can't hold any grudge that would stop him from protecting his family.

"Sam? Dean?!" John's eyes dart rapidly around the room. The direction of his gun follows his line of sight from wall-to-wall and corner-to-corner until the hunter is satisfied there's no immediate threat in the room.

He can see Dean still sitting on the sofa and he feels ashamed.

_He was abandoned for twenty years; what difference will ninety minutes have made to him?_ sneers the bitter, cynical voice of John's guilt.

His youngest son is seated on the wooden floor, staring up at his brother. The kid looks nearly as pale as Dean, which _isn't _a good thing.

"Sam, are you alright?" John asks, walking to stand by his sons. "Dean?"

And then John sees the cause of Sam's concern and it's enough to catch his breath in his throat. The undeniable evidence of his complete and utter failure as a father mapped out on Dean's chest in a cacophony of every type of wound imaginable. John doesn't even know where to start looking.

Three ragged, diagonal scars across Dean's trapezoid hint at a lucky escape and, as John moves in closer, he can see another mark on his son's shoulder. As soon as he realises what it is, he quickly draws back, fighting hard to keep his horror off his face. There's an unmistakably shaped, raised, circular burn in the sensitive hollow behind Dean's prominent clavicle. John remembers Edwin's nicotine-stained fingertips and feels sick.

There are other old wounds, numerous and vicious in appearance, and each one sears itself into John's memory until he feels like he's suffering from each and every one of them.

_Don't compare your pain to Dean's._ _You don't have the right._

John forces himself to keep looking, following the ugly trail of lesions and injuries until he reaches Dean's chest. Layers of ugly purple bruises stain his son's pale skin and there's no doubt that there's damage under them. Broken ribs are certain and John knows he might be dealing with internal injuries, too.

He's managing to detach himself a little as he stares at the ravaged torso before him, until he looks back up and sees Dean's face. How can he be detached when this is his _son_?! It's something he never quite managed whenever Sam has been injured on a hunt and this kid has all of John and Sam's injuries combined and then some.

As John stares at his eldest son's face, the black eye looks more prominent than ever and the clump of missing hair that he had barely even noticed before seems blindingly obvious now.

John Winchester thinks he's seen the worst that he can see. John Winchester has no idea that much worse is in store for him.

* * *

"Dammit, Dean…why didn't you mention this?"

Dean wants to curl up into a ball and hide. Actually, he wants to crawl into a hole and _then_ curl up and hide. He's so sick of being ogled like a piece of fucking meat.

_It's all you are, Dean;, it's all you've ever been to them. They don't want damaged goods. Truth hurts, don't it?_

And now they want him to talk about it? What's he supposed to say?

"Dean, why didn't you mention how hurt you were?" John insists and Dean stammers as he tries to express his feelings. He's not used to admitting his injuries, not even used to talking about himself _at all_, really, and he still half expects John to hit him or mock him the minute he starts speaking.

"I…I don't…I didn't see the point, Sir."

Really, he didn't. Experience has taught him that all he'll receive is a cuff round the head and an order to 'suck it up'. He knows it's his fault anyway; if he was a better fighter he wouldn't get so injured on hunts, and if he didn't screw up so much, he wouldn't get beaten.

"Christ, Dean…"

So now he's going to get beaten for _not _saying he was injured? Oh that's real fair.

_Please leave me alone._

And then he watches as John Winchester's eyes flood with tears instead of fury, and then he realises where the elder man is looking. Realises he's finally seen what had made his son scream. He instinctively moves to cover the offending area, but the man grabs his free wrist before he can finish the action, and rationally he knows he couldn't have covered up his whole left forearm anyway.

Dean tries not to flinch as the hunter runs a calloused fingertip over the marks scarred into his arm - uneven, ragged, block-capitals trailing down the length of his forearm.

D E A N

It's not the oldest scar he has, but it's by far the most significant. A self mutilation of his body, to stop the mutilation of his mind.

As he closes his eyes, Dean can see himself, 16 years old, carving into his arm with a jagged piece of sharpened slate. He'd cried with frustration and pain but he dug in deep regardless, not caring about the blood that coated his arm from elbow to wrist and trickled through his shaking hands. Not caring that he knew he was going to get the beating of his life for it. Not caring that he might bleed to death before Edwin, or whichever goon it was going to be, got a chance to lay their hands on him.

And even as he stared at the four letters carved into his arm, he couldn't replace the image of his only friend, beaten almost to death because _Dean _screwed up his duty.

He'd run too early - he hadn't been able to help it - and he'd lured the Wendigo out before Edwin's pack of hunters had been ready. None of them had died, but there had been a few close calls and Edwin had been beyond furious. The punishment had been worse than anything Dean had ever taken before.

His wrists continued to bleed from where he had tugged and fought the cuffs that had attached him to the wall, that had stopped him being able to intervene and given him no choice but to watch as Edwin kicked the shit out of the only person Dean could ever remember caring about.

_This is why you shouldn't care! _his brain had screamed as his voice rapidly turned hoarse from his frenzied protests. It wasn't the lesson Edwin had wanted him to learn from the experience, but it's what Dean had taken away from it. What he should have known in the first place.

And then, ten minutes later in the cell he shared with the kid he had just watched almost die, Dean defied twelve years of abuse and brainwashing in a moment of furious rebellion.

"Edwin, you sick fucker!" His voice was raspy, but that just added to the menace and anger. "My name isn't 'Bait' - it's 'Dean'! If you got a problem with it, come down and tell me!"

It was what his owner spent more than a decade drumming out of him but Dean had never broken. Not until that moment, when his defiant soul had shattered and broken in a way no one could have anticipated.

As he had hard Edwin's unmistakable footsteps coming towards his cell, Dean braced himself for the onslaught of rage and tried to comfort himself with the only thing he could think of.

"_Dean? Dean?! Dean, I'm going to find you!"_

Dean couldn't remember who had said that, or when, but he knew it was important. It had to be, or else why would he have clung on to the memory for twelve years?

The movement of John's hand on his arm jerks Dean back to the present. He knows what John is looking at now and he squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the elder man's face.

_Please, I don't want him to see this…Please, I want to be somewhere else…_

He wants to cry and Dean Winchester _never _cries. He knows crying doesn't do you any good. It hadn't done him any good when Edwin had etched his makeshift tattoo into the crook of Dean's elbow.

JE

"That's what you are." He'd smirked as Dean screamed from the pain. "…mine."

And Dean's never forgotten it.

* * *

**AN: So Dean's 'marks' were all done in fancy fonts on my word doc but of course they didn't transfer to . Use your imagination! Hope you enjoyed!**

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi guys, hope you enjoy this chapter. Don't think there's any more than the usual warnings. Some comfort for Dean and a little brotherly bonding.**

* * *

Chapter Ten

Sam doesn't know if he's ever felt more useless. His father is stoically tending to each of Dean's injuries, and Dean is stoically (as always) pretending he's not in pain. Sam, on the other hand, feels like he's about to go to pieces.

He's seen a lot of stuff, sure. He's even seen injuries worse than Dean's before, but they've never been his responsibility. And ever since Sam heard those three words from his father – 'he's your brother', Dean has been his responsibility.

So why, now, can he only stare in muted horror at his brother's ravaged body, instead of helping to care for him?

A sharp gasp wakens Sam from his musing and he looks up to see his father gently probing the mass of bruising on Dean's torso.

"I'm sorry, buddy," John soothes as Dean bites into his lip. "I just gotta check what's broken."

Sam hates that it's not _if _something is broken, but how much and how badly. He watches his father's hands, oddly gentle for such a powerful man, running lightly over the discoloured skin.

"Alright. There. That's good. I'm done."

Dean nods in response, the pain and exhaustion evident from the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the glazed look in his eyes.

"Let's take a break for second, okay?" John asks and Dean nods slowly, wearily, again. His chest is rising and falling heavily, showing just how much of a toll John's ministrations are taking on him, as much as he tries to hide it.

* * *

They rest, for a few minutes, Dean gratefully gulping down the glass of water Sam offers him before John begins again.

"What happened to your hand?" he asks Dean, as he lightly takes hold of the injured appendage. Sam notices Dean look away in embarrassment and he has to laugh at the mumbled answer his Dad receives.

"I hurt it."

John rolls his eyes at this but chuckles at the same time. "It's gonna need a splint," he observes as he skims his hand over the skin, feeling torn tendons and a few small but noticeable fractures in the bone.

Dean frowns at this, "A what?"

John decides to show rather than tell and Dean winces as John pushes his index and middle fingers together against a strip of thin, hard plastic.

"I'm sorry it hurts," John sighs, for what must be the tenth time by now, "but we don't want your hand mending itself wrong," he finishes, binding Dean's fingers together with tape between his two sets of knuckles.

Far from quelled by his explanation, Dean looks absolutely horrified, "How am I supposed to fight like this?!" he exclaims, quickly adding, "Sir."

"You're not," John explains. "You're going to rest."

He proves his point by pinning Dean's injured hand to his chest in a sling since he doesn't trust the boy not to use it regardless of the pain. He guesses that Dean's never been taught how to recognise his boundaries before. John's sure that, just like all his other injuries, Dean's been forced to ignore this one and to deal with the pain as an unavoidable consequence. No wonder the idea of taking time out to heal is so foreign to the boy.

The hunter is incredibly glad Sam bought supplies, as he watches his first aid kit diminish over the course of the hour. Dean's ribs are wrapped for support, not as tight as they should be, but the strangled scream from Dean when John had pulled the bindings tight just proved that there was only so much the boy could take.

A deep, infected gash on Dean's thigh is disinfected with medicinal alcohol, causing Dean to hiss in pain. John knows how much it must sting and he hates that Dean's 'care' must feel like a torture session to the boy. As he covers the wound with gauze, he can feel Dean shaking under his ministrations.

Is it pain? Fear? Exhaustion? Cold? Knowing Dean it's probably all four and the kid isn't even close to admitting he needs a break.

John, on the other hand, is _more _than ready to call a time-out.

"Sam, go get Dean some more food," he orders, knowing it's been a few hours since Dean ate and not wanting to put him through any more pain for the time being.

Sam nods at his father's order, glad to finally be doing something useful.

As he walks the few metres to the kitchen, he debates reheating the soup and then, thinking of Dean's immobile arm, decides against it, reaching instead for a bag of rice-cakes. He has to crouch down to reach into the storage cupboard and, as the door swings open, he gasps in alarm and confusion.

Instead of the sparse cupboard space, there's simply a void of pitch dark gloom. It's eerie and unlike anything Sam has ever seen and he can't seem to stop himself looking despite how disturbing he finds the sight.

_Get Dad. Dad will know what to do._

Sam forces himself to move, standing up and turning around, only to find the darkness is all around him and not just in the cupboard.

_What the hell?!_

And yet, as he lifts his hand to his face, he can see it almost glowing in the darkness, as if he's radiating light. And with this revelation, the darkness shifts and the world around him turns, greyscale, sepia, and then normal. Only he's not in his house and there's no sign of his family, so nothing's really normal at all.

"Oh, God…" Sam knows he should be staying calm and silent, and assessing his surroundings without being detected but he's beyond freaked now.

"Help me!"

And then the whole world seems to flicker and he feels a stabbing pain in his head so sharp it has him doubled over in agony. With his eyes squeezed shut he can no longer see his own body but his sight is far from empty. His mind flashes with images that make no sense, the light and noise excruciating in his aching head.

He can hear screaming and he tries to block his ears, only to find he's being held down by hands he can't see. He wants to scream now, too, and it takes him a second or two of trying before he realises that he's the one who's been screaming all along.

* * *

Dean's surprised that, only an hour after Sam's vision, the kid is acting normal again. In fact, he seems to barely even remember what happened to him.

_Edwin wouldn't have been happy with __**that **__result at all._

John Winchester has retired to his study, leaving Dean alone with Sam. He can study all he wants, but Dean knows what he's just seen isn't in any book. Edwin always said there was only ever one child that got away from their 'family' and if Sam really is that child then…

What is he doing thinking about _books_?! If Sam's a psychic and he doesn't even _know, _then there could be people after him and Sam and John would have no idea. Edwin might be gone, but Dean knows his organisation will be carrying on with their plan regardless.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend… _Dean thinks to himself as he watches Sam, who is completely unaware of the danger he's in, stretched out and reading a book. Of course, Dean knows things are never that clear cut, and he sure as hell knows _he _doesn't have any friends. Well, apart from…

"Hey, Dean?" Sam is smiling as he looks up from his book and Dean looks up curiously. "I got you some stuff today."

"Some…stuff?" Dean echoes nervously. "Sir?"

The only time Dean's ever been given something was when Edwin 'gave' him some out of date pills to see if they were safe for him to take.

_God, no…_

Dean shivers, remembering the terrifying hallucinations and sickness that had lasted for days.

_I don't think I can take that again…_

"…and I know you can't wear them right now, but I thought when you're better you could have these."

Dean tunes back into Sam speaking and frowns as the guy hands him a pair of fingerless, brown gloves.

"I-I don't underst-."

"And I got some socks cos I know your feet must be freezing," Sam carries on obliviously, piling a pair of thick socks onto Dean's lap.

"Oh and some new shirts cos, no offence, but that one you have…"

Dean struggles to hold onto the ever growing pile of clothes with his one functioning arm.

_What the hell is going on?_

"And these," Sam finishes triumphantly, pulling out the final item from his bag.

Dean gasps in shock, "Boots…"

He longs to touch them, to run his hand over the worn, black leather and shiny buckles, but he knows better. He's content to just sit and stare at them anyway. Dean Winchester might have never owned a pair of shoes since he was six years old, but he still appreciates good craftsmanship.

"They should be your size," Sam explains, still not quite registering the look of awe on his brother's face.

"M-my?" Dean stammers, feeling bewildered and overwhelmed. "Sir, I don't…"

"Don't what, Dean?" Some of the excitement has left Sam's voice as he takes in Dean's nervousness. He'd thought Dean would have been delighted with his presents – if anything he looks terrified.

"I don't understand. Why are these mine? What do you want me to do for them?" Dean's mind is screaming at him to shut up, to stop giving Sam ideas, but, just like he told John, he hates the suspense of waiting to find out his punishments.

"Do? You don't have to _do _anything," Sam replies. "They're yours because you need them."

Dean nods slowly, almost understanding, and then shakes his head.

"But…what does it matter what I need?"

"Dean just…just put the shirt on, please." Sam's voice sounds odd to Dean. It's the same tone from when he'd been quizzing him about how much food he'd eaten.

"Yes, Sir."

He stands up and turns around as he pulls the soft fleecy material over his head. He freezes however when he hears Sam give a strangled gasp and he's tempted to slam his head into the wall in frustration, except that, in his state, it would probably knock him out. What has he done _now_?

"Dean, your back!"

Dean jumps at the feeling of slender fingers against his spine. He'd forgotten that Sam had been out from his vision when John had spazzed over his back. Why do they have to make such a big deal out of it? It's only a few scars after all.

"It's not my fault!" he scowls, pulling the shirt down harshly and then gasping with the pain. "It's what happens when you get whipped every fucking week."

On top of that his stupid arm is strapped against his chest and won't fit into the sleeve and…**damn, **he's pissed off.

"I know, Dean," Sam replies gently as Dean goes back to his position, curled up defensively in the corner of the sofa and glaring at the floor.

"Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…I just…I mean…it must have hurt," Sam finally manages to blurt out and Dean almost feels sorry for him.

_Stop it! _His survival instincts remind him.

"No shit, Genius. Did you read that in your book?" _**Almost**_sorry for him.

Sam simply lies back down and Dean watches a tear drop onto the pages of the battered old book.

"What the hell are you crying for?"

Just because he's being nice doesn't mean he cares, he tells himself. He just wants to know why the guy's crying so he knows whether he's in for a beating or not.

Sam doesn't reply and Dean bites on his lip nervously before rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath,

"Wierdo."

"Dean, are you alright just sitting there?"

"Sir?" Dean frowns as he hears Sam's voice. He's been too busy luxuriating in the feeling of soft fleece and warm feet to pay much attention. Plus, he figures Sam is probably still angry with him for whatever it was he did wrong earlier.

"It's fine if you just want to sit there. I mean, I know I was kind of a bastard before. I get it if you wanna ignore me," Sam adds guiltily, "but you don't have to sit and be bored. We can play cards or something, or I have some books or…"

"Cards?" Is this a trick? Is Sam hinting that he should be doing something more productive?

"You've never played cards?" Sam questions, sounding surprised.

Dean shrugs. "Never 'played' anything," he admits quietly.

Sam's face creases into an expression of pity and Dean tries not to roll his eyes. Like he hasn't had _enough _pity today…

"I had better things to do," he announces snarkily, if only to wipe that look off of the younger man's face.

Sam's expression goes from sympathetic to sarcastic as he raises his eyebrows.

"What, like getting beaten up?" he half-jokes, a hint of defensiveness in his tone, and Dean glares angrily in response before relenting and shrugging again.

"Mostly…" he admits with a humourless laugh.

"Well, since I'm not going to beat you up, why don't you come play cards?" he suggests and Dean nods obediently. It could be an order in disguise and Dean doesn't want to screw up.

He has to stifle a groan as he moves off the couch and onto the hard wooden floor and he flinches when Sam gently tosses him a large sofa cushion.

"Sit on that," he instructs as he grabs another one off the couch for himself.

"Yes, Sir."

Dean obeys, frowning when he notices Sam's expression. Shit, what's he done?

"Dean, man, you don't have to call me 'Sir' all the time," Sam smiles and Dean frowns suspiciously.

Well, no way in hell is Dean calling this brat 'master'. He never even referred to Edwin as 'master'.

"'Sam' is fine," the younger man finishes and Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Sam," he tries the word out for size before working up the courage to use it in an actual sentence.

"I…I um, I might forget sometimes. Edwin liked…I mean, I had to be respectful or else…" Dean trails off, meekly adding "Sam" after a pause and Sam just nods in understanding, masking the complete emotional tornado inside his brain. Just like Dean's cautious words mask so many memories of pain and fear.

It's a strange sort of bonding with neither of them saying what needs to be said, but both silently acknowledging that now isn't the time.

"It's alright, Dean. There's no 'or elses' here," Sam assures, hoping that this time Dean will believe him.

_There's always an 'or else'_, Dean thinks suspiciously. _It's just taking a while to figure this one out is all_.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam's never thought that a game of solitaire could be so heart wrenching. All he's doing is teaching Dean a simple card game and he already feels like he wants to cry - _again_. Talk about being a baby.

Dean is staring at the cards intently, frowning in deep concentration, and Sam doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. The fact that Dean takes a simple game so seriously would be funny if it weren't for the fact that Sam knows _why _he does. Does he really believe Sam would hit him just for messing up a dumb little _game_?

On top of that, it's clear Dean struggles with his addition and it even takes him a little while to recognise some of the numbers. Sam hadn't even _thought _of that. Of course, you didn't need to go to school when all you were doing was fighting for your life. It makes horrible sense.

With only one hand, Dean's either too stubborn or too afraid to ask for help handling the cards and Sam just wants to kick himself as his list of failures mounts up. This was _supposed _to be fun.

"Dean…I'm sorry," he sighs, resting his cheek on his hand as he looks across at his brother. Dean looks up, briefly making eye contact before dropping his gaze back to the floor.

"You're not having fun, are you?" Sam sighs.

"Fun?"

"Yeah, you know…enjoying yourself?" Sam hopes Dean is just being sarcastic but he has a feeling that, for once, he's being honest. God…_of course_ no one's ever taught Dean how to have fun and relax.

"What do you like doing?" He asks softly and Dean shrugs.

"Sleeping?"

Sam smiles - that figures.

"What did you do, when you weren't hunting?" he continues, lying down on the floor until he's a couple of metres away from Dean and he can see his brother's face clearly. He's not sure he really wants to know the answer, but he _is _sure that he _needs_ to know. For his brother's sake, he's not going to shy away from something he finds upsetting.

Dean looks down at the space between his crossed knees, avoiding Sam's eyes as he speaks.

"Training. Punishment…Just…,"Dean trails off and Sam notices the way he's hugging himself with his one working arm.

"I just did what I was told…Sir-Sam."

Dean sounds distant, afraid, and Sam curses. He's as bad as his Dad; he can't do anything right when it comes to Dean. Even now, Dean's eyes are vacant, lost in memories, and Sam hates that he's dredged them all back to the surface.

"Screwed up most of the time," Dean adds, using that humourless, self-deprecating tone that Sam recognises from earlier. He's starting to think it's Dean's attempt at small-talk and he's grateful for it, even if the sentiment is upsetting.

"I wish you'd believe me if I told you they were the ones who were wrong, not you." Sam's more thinking out loud than addressing Dean. After all, the guy has been here less than twenty-four hours; Sam knows it's going to take much longer to change Dean's mindset.

"You don't know…" Dean pauses and Sam feels like he's on the brink of something important. And then the moment fades and Dean simply shakes his head. "You don't know that."

"You don't want to talk about it," Sam acknowledges. He's realising now that Dean responds far better to simple honesty than to complicated metaphors and pity. Sam's being as honest as he can without being brutal.

_Oh yeah, apart from the fact you've not told him you're his __**brother**__._

"Is there anything you _do _want to talk about?" Sam thinks it's a lost cause but he's going to _attempt _to get Dean to believe his opinion is valued. If he just acts like that's the truth from day one then Dean might have an easier time accepting it.

He's therefore surprised when Dean answers him.

"Y-your vision? Sir…I mean Sam."

Sam considers telling Dean that he didn't mean the guy should just replace 'Sir' with 'Sam', but he decides it's not worth it. Not when Dean is finally giving an opinion.

"What about it?"

Now Sam knows kind of how Dean feels – he doesn't _really _want to talk about what happened at all. He's hoping it was just some sort of one-off. In fact, he'd never even thought about it as a 'vision'.

But Dean had. So what did that mean?

"What did you see?" Dean asks.

"It was weird," Sam admits, secretly revelling in the fact that for once Dean is looking at him and not at the floor or to the side of his head.

"I saw, like, a cell." He's speaking slowly as he tries to piece together the few fragmented images he can remember.

"There was a person there; a-a man. I think he had blonde hair. And there was a hat…a floating hat. Then just a whole load of screaming."

Sam shakes his head vigorously as if to clear away the images.

"I bet I sound like a total nutjob? Huh?" he jokes, acutely aware of how dumb he must have just sounded.

Dean looks far from amused; if anything, he looks horrified.

_Is it actually possible to screw up this day more than you already have?_ Sam berates himself, staring vacantly at Dean's pale face.

Sam Winchester wasn't even aware of the impact his words carried or how badly he had just 'screwed up'.

* * *

The drumming of the rain on the roof is loud and unrelenting, but Dean's managing to drown it out to white noise as he lays on Sam's mattress. The odd rumble of thunder keeps cutting through his concentration, but Dean finds it a suitably dramatic distraction for his current thoughts.

Although, of all the nights there could have been a storm, it has to be the night when he wants to escape – that sucks. Still, he'll use it to his advantage as much as he can, just like he always does.

_No point trying to distract yourself thinking about the short-term, _he thinks bitterly, _In the long run, you're screwed._

And it's true. Once he gets out of here, even if he manages to complete his mission first, things are going to get ugly. He'll have Edwin's goons out for his blood, most likely with the guys in the next room helping them track him down. As for food and shelter…they don't give ration coupons to bait.

_You'll die starving on the streets. _Dean can almost imagine Edwin's sneering face as he thinks to himself, _It's a fitting end for you._

"I don't wanna leave…," he whispers quietly, as if answering Edwin's mocking statement.

_Talking to ghosts, Dean? That ain't your job._

And as much as Dean wants to stay focused and stop his rambling thoughts, he's so damned _scared _he can't do a thing about it.

"I don't wanna go back there."

Dean isn't thinking of Edwin's office but of the cells beneath it. Of years spent chained in the dark, cold and hungry. Years of beatings and training and hunts and all of it so fucking painful.

The young man wraps Sam's blanket round him like a shield and hugs it tight to his body in an attempt to stop his trembling. Can he do it? Can he leave here where he's warm and fed and-

_And what, Dean? _he scolds himself. _Safe? There's nowhere safe for you and you know it. They're breaking you here, Dean, making you weak. Get out._

His self deprecating pep-talk spurs him into action and he shrugs off the blanket. Maybe he will die starving on the streets, but at least it won't be from some demon or a drunken beating gone too far, which is how he's always expected he'll die. Then again, there isn't just him to think about now. A blonde kid with a hat? Dean's in no doubt who that is and _that's _why he has to go back.

His feet feel heavy and cumbersome in the boots, but the young man is pretty certain he can sneak out without being noticed. He has no choice anyway – that Sam kid has freakishly long legs and Dean knows he could never outrun him in his current shape, if ever. On top of that, John is armed and Dean's already assessed that there's not sufficient cover for him outside if it comes to a fire fight. If he gets noticed, he's dead.

Shot in the back and left in the mud…another honourable death for him. Dean wants to scream, to hit something to…to just **explode** with all his emotions and take the whole fucking camp with him. Let the demons have the world. Dean doubts they can be much worse than the humans anyway.

_Stop feeling sorry for yourself and __**move**__, _Dean's instincts scream at him and the young man obeys.

His legs are shaking as he tries to stand on them and he curses – being here, even for a day, _has _made him weak. As he peers through the crack of the ajar door, he can see Sam sprawled out on the sofa, fast asleep. He wonders if Sam would even try to stop him; after all, when Dean's gone, the kid can have his bed back.

The door creaks as Dean pushes it open and he bites down on his lip to stop another frustrated curse escaping. Sam groans a little but doesn't wake and Dean can't help but smirk at the perceived weakness because it gives him a tiny scrap of much-needed confidence.

_He's a hunter, he shouldn't be such a heavy sleeper._

Standing in the door frame, Dean measures the steps to the exit. If he weren't limping so badly, he could make it in ten paces; as he is now, it's probably more like twenty.Twenty opportunities to be noticed, twenty chances to be seen, twenty instances Dean can't afford.

Tentatively, he steps out of the little room and he tries to ignore the way his heart twinges as he leaves.

_A cell is a cell whether it's got bars or not, _he reminds himself.

Nineteen, eighteen…it's still not too late to turn back.

Sixteen, fifteen…another groan from Sam.

Thirteen, twelve. Dean panics as he steps and slips on a discarded playing card, barely managing to stop himself from falling.

_Careless! _He scowls, as his eyes flicker to Sam who's thankfully still sleeping, _Nearly as careless as he is._

And yet, even as he mocks the guy, Dean still can't stop looking. His eyes are still trained on the hunter as he reaches down and scoops up the playing card, clenching it into his fist as he's briefly overwhelmed with memories. The young man feels almost hyperaware of his satisfied stomach, the soft material against his welted back, his arm supported and safe, his feet protected and warm…

_Get. Out! _He has to force himself to start moving again.

Eleven, ten….he's still only halfway; he could still pretend he was just going to the bathroom. Sure he'd probably get a beating for moving without permission, but at least he might be allowed to stay in the warmth. At least he wouldn't be back _there_.

_Don't be selfish. You __**need **__to go back._

Eight, seven…a crash of lightning makes Dean jump and his eyes flicker to Sam and then to the entrance to John's bedroom.

Six, five…

_Why are you taking so long? _Dean doesn't know. Maybe he subconsciously wants to get caught?

Four, three…

_You think a beating is all you'd get? _Dean shivers as he remembers the few times he'd tried to escape Edwin; the searing pain in his head as Edwin's incantation crippled him with agony and the subsequent days spent bleeding and broken, too weak to even need to be chained.

Dean doesn't know if Edwin had really intended to leave him there to die or not, but he knows that he was saved. Knows _who _saved him and at what cost and he knows **that's **why he has to move these final steps.

Two…Dean reaches out and pulls open the heavy front door. This door doesn't creak and he's so thin he doesn't have to pull it open far to slip through.

One – he's out.

And with that revelation, Dean does what he's been trained his whole life to do – he runs.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The rain is thick and heavy and Dean's soon soaked through his new clothes to his skin. He feels annoyingly guilty about this.

_Just proves why Edwin didn't get you any new stuff - you manage to fuck everything up, don't you?_

Dean's thoughts help him ignore the freezing cold that he's feeling. His journey is taking him longer than he thought it would - he's still not used to these shoes, his leg hurts and it's hard to run and keep your balance with one arm. Dean expects it's probably the worst escape attempt ever, but he has no choice, so he ignores the chill and the pain and just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

It takes him nearly an hour to get back to Edwin's office and the young man can't help but wonder if Sam and John will have noticed his disappearance. Will they have sent the guards out for him? Will they want him back alive or…or not? If they want him back at all that is - they got him for free after all, so who's to say they'd even care?

The sight of the familiar old shack jolts Dean out of his musings with a surge of panic. The building is small and poorly maintained, with rot and woodworm setting into the walls and one side slightly higher than the other. It looks like a strong gust of wind might blow it over and to Dean, it's still absolutely terrifying.

And then, as he fights the urge to just turn straight back and run, Dean's eyes catch sight of something else near the building, something he doesn't recall from his horrendous memories of the place, and he limps tentatively towards it.

When he finally processes what he's seeing, he breaks out into a full run, dropping to knees in the muddy Earth beside what he now sees is a body.

"Oh, God…"

Suddenly he feels six years old again, too scared to even think, and the only thought ricocheting through his mind is repeating itself in a panic-inducing loop.

_It's him. Oh God, it's him. It's him._

It's the limp body of a young man. His blond hair is darkened by rain and mud, plastered to his forehead, and half-hidden under a cock-eyed baseball cap. He's dressed in a long-sleeved polo shirt. One of the sleeves is ripped off at the elbow and the bottom of the bedraggled garment is missing a jagged, diagonal strip of material, revealing a flash of a pale, thin waist. A pair of black denim trousers are held up by a cord belt that's so big on the thin body that the slack emerging from the huge metal buckle reaches halfway to the kid's knee.

"Hey. Hey, Robby, come on, it's me. It's Dean. Come on."

The boy stirs briefly, moaning, and a strong gust of wind blows the baseball cap, which is balanced loosely on his head, up into the air. For a moment, time slows down as Dean realises with sickening clarity what's happening as he watches the baseball cap floating just at his eye level.

And then the world comes crashing back with a dramatic flash of lightning and Dean snatches the baseball cap out of the air before it can blow away. This is Sam's vision and Dean's living it – just like he expected. But what use is a vision when Dean doesn't even know what happens next?

Just like usual, Dean feels totally helpless and the sound of thundering footsteps only fuels his fear. The fear, in turn, fuels his anger, and the young man pulls himself to his feet, turning and falling into a slightly lopsided fighting stance as he stands over the unconscious body of his only friend.

Vision or not, Dean is a fighter and he's not going down without a helluva battle.

* * *

John hasn't run so far and so fast in a long time. His feet are pounding against the wet, slippery earth and he's looking straight ahead, searching for any sign of Dean. He undoubtedly would have fallen if he didn't know every pothole, every rock and shrub, and every other trip hazard - he's walked this route a hundred times and his son has been so **close **every time! John wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. Instead, he grits his teeth and forces his legs to move faster, almost stamping at the ground in his haste and frustration.

And then Edwin's dwelling comes into his vision and he skids to a halt. At the same time, he hears Sam stop moving and he frowns at his son's gasp of alarm.

"Sam?"

His son doesn't reply and instead starts sprinting again. John follows and as he closes the last forty or so metres to the shack, he sees the cause of Sam's outburst. Well, he sees _Dean _and doesn't think much beyond that; he's too overwhelmed with relief to spare much thought for the unconscious form behind his son – as long as it's not one of his sons that's unconscious, John doesn't much care.

"Dean?! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Oh, did he mention he was angry, too?

_Both _his sons glare at him in response to this, but John's past caring.

"Fuck off, old man!" Dean yells back at him over the noise of the rain and thunder. Even soaked to the bone and streaked with mud, Dean is as defiant as ever.

"Dean, a-are you alright?" Sam is moving to Dean's side, his eyes sweeping over his brother's body for any fresh injuries. It's only as his gaze reaches Dean's lower half that he sees the baseball cap clutched in the elder man's trembling hand and the blond-haired boy crumpled on the ground.

John takes one look at his youngest son's face and knows something is wrong.

"This is what I saw…"

John has to stand by his son's side to hear the muttered words.

"I…I saw this happen."

"Keep it together, Sam," John orders harshly.

"I-I know it is!" Dean sounds more afraid than John can ever remember hearing. "Leave us alone!"

John can't tell if those are tears or raindrops on Dean's cheeks. He has a fairly good idea, though.

"'Us'?" Sam frowns in confusion, gesturing to the prone form at his brother's feet, "Who is that?"

"No one," Dean replies automatically before realising the ineffectiveness of his comment and panicking. "It's…it's….it's none of your fucking business! Go away! Leave me the fuck alone!"

And then Dean does something neither John nor Sam has ever seen: his fist lashes out towards Sam's temple, the young man's face contorted in a silent scream of desperation. John can tell that under normal circumstances, the blow would have been potentially deadly. As it is, Dean's weary, off balance, and panicking and John catches the blow easily before it has a chance to get within inches of his youngest son.

John curls his left hand around Dean's fisted right one, temporarily incapacitating the boy.

"Dean, buddy, it's alright…calm down." John realises the irony of his statement after his earlier outburst at just the _sight _of his son and he has no doubt that Sam does, too.

"Just relax." Firmer now, but still calm; Dean's chest is heaving and John knows the boy is on the verge of snapping.

"Everything's gonna be alright."

"Is this a friend of yours?" Sam's voice is equally calm, albeit with a slight tremor. "Is he hurt?"

Dean yanks his hand out of John's grip and both the eldest and the youngest Winchesters prepare themselves for another blow. Instead, Dean just crouches down beside the limp body on the floor and nods warily.

"Uh-huh."

"Well…come on, we'll take him back home with us, fix him up." John is willing to promise his son _anything _right now. "Just _please_ come back home, Dean."

Dean looks torn between suspicion and exhaustion and he manages to stammer out one word as he stands back up.

"Home?"

"With us," John explains.

"_With your family…" _he adds, trying to say with his eyes what he only dares verbalise in his mind.

"Robby comes, too?" Dean questions. "You won't kill him? I'm not leaving him!"

Now that he's got his nerve back the questions and threats come quick and fast and John just responds on autopilot.

"You're both gonna be alright. Let's just get you home."

"This is touching."

An unfamiliar voice has John reaching for his gun as he spins rapidly around. An equally unfamiliar man stands before him and John wonders how he managed to sneak up undetected. Another duet of thunder and lightning momentarily deafens him and there, John thinks, is his answer. The guy's smart and that makes him dangerous.

"Real touching," the man continues. "But he's home already….aren't you, Dean?"

Too shocked and confused to respond, there's only silence from John and Sam.

Dean's fearful whisper cuts through it like the sharpest of blades and it's enough to have John switching his aim from the stranger's hip to his heart – incapacitating to deadly.

"It's you..."

As Dean continues his tone is enough to convince John to shift his aim again, this time to the man's bald head – fatal.

"Walker…."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Sam's thoughts are racing, going faster even than when he had sprinted from home to Edwin's hut, and the young hunter is floundering as he tries to keep up with his own mind. From the minute he'd heard Dean trying to tiptoe across the living room in his "new" Doc Martens, his thoughts have been a relentless onslaught of questions and possibilities and plans and more questions.

And now the appearance of this stranger (or clearly _not_ a stranger, in Dean's case) has just confused him further.

_Who is he? Why is he here? How does he know Dean? How does Dean know __**him**__? And who the hell is that kid from the vision? What should I do?_

One single word from his older brother silences his internal ramblings.

"Run!"

But Sam stays put and so does John. Dean looks aghast as he repeats himself.

"_Run!_" he orders, pleads, _begs,_ but Sam and John still stay right where they are, by the side of their brother and son - a family unit.

"You should listen to the boy," Walker informs them. His voice is calm, almost conversational as if this is an everyday scenario. "I've got no quarrel with you, why don't you just put the gun down and walk away?"

"Who are you?" Sam demands, irritated by the man's nonchalance.

"A friend of Dean's," Walker replies, his face morphing into a scowl at Dean's defensive glare.

"Don't look at me like that, boy! I looked after you and you know it."

"I-I'm not going back down there!" Dean yells in retaliation.

He still sounds angry but the exhaustion and panic are taking their toll and Dean's façade is slipping bit by bit, slowly revealing how very scared he is. And then, in front of Sam's eyes, the mask shatters and Dean turns to John with pleading, desperate eyes.

"John, Sir, please…please don't let him take me back down there. I'm sorry I tried to escape, I was just - I'll be good, I promise. I'll be better next time! Whatever you want. You can beat me however much you want, I-I won't sleep on your bed, I won't eat your food, I…you can have the clothes back, you can save your bandages, I'll bleed outside, I won't get your house dirty. Please…Sir."

Dean's openly crying now. Not the hysterical sobs Sam was expecting, but silent, broken tears slipping gently down his brother's face. It's clear this is a mercy he doesn't expect to be granted.

"Please."

As Sam listens to his brother's broken pleading, he doubts the guy even knows the meaning of mercy.

"Please don't send me back there," Dean's voice is a mere whisper now, exhausted, defeated and hollow.

John's voice is gruff and harsh in comparison. "Come here."

Dean obeys, stepping over the body of his unconscious friend. His eyes linger on the boy for a minute before flickering over to John. The hopelessness in that pleading stare cuts Sam to the core and he knows it must be doing the same to his father.

"Irritating little punk, isn't he?" Walker comments. "I never could get him to shut up, either."

Sam wonders if the man before him knows just how much worse he is making the situation for himself.

"Want me to take him off your hands for you? I know Edwin gave him to you, don't know why, but the crazy bastard's dead now anyway, there won't be any trouble."

Obviously not.

John drapes one arm protectively around his son's shoulders; the other is still aiming the gun right between Walker's big brown eyes.

"You lay a hand on him and there'll be more than trouble," John assures the younger man.

"Is that a threat?" Walker's tone shifts – he clearly hadn't been expecting _that_.

"It's a promise," John growls.

Sam has to stifle his grin. He normally hates that his father's automatic reaction to anything he doesn't like is to point a gun at it, but this time he welcomes it. This man wants to take Dean back to his old life. This man was obviously _part _of Dean's old life. Sam hates him.

Dean, meanwhile, is looking absolutely astounded. His knuckles are white as he squeezes that baseball cap in his clenched fist and Sam can see him trembling.

"Two deaths at the same place in 24 hours of each other? The guards would sniff you out. You'd be in the mines for decades. I'm Gordon Walker, I'm an important figure here. You won't kill me," Walker proclaims arrogantly.

"I don't give a flying fuck who you are," John sneers and Walker's face falls.

"He's just bait!" the man exclaims. "He's not worth this!"

Sam's fully expecting his Dad to pull the trigger at that comment and he's disturbed to find that he's almost looking forward to it. It's then he realises that he has to stop this before it gets out of hand, before human lives aren't important to him anymore and he becomes as bad as Edwin and Walker.

"Dad, he-," he begins to protest, and is startled when Dean cuts him off.

"Please don't kill him…"

Sam exchanges a confused glance with his father before looking curiously at Dean.

"Dean?"

"Please, Sir," Dean's looking at the ground like he wants to disappear. "Please don't kill him."

"Are you sure?" John questions suspiciously and Dean nods timidly.

"Yes." A pause. "Please don't kill him."

Sam counts off the seconds in his brain until John, with a dramatic sigh, lowers his weapon.

Walker starts to smirk at this, and as he opens his mouth to spew some more garbage, John Winchester cuts him off with a look that would be enough to stop even _Sam _from arguing with him.

"Run, Gordon Walker," the elder Winchester hisses, raising his gun again. "Run for your life."

* * *

As he pushes open the front door and steps gratefully out of the rain, John Winchester has to wonder what has happened these past two days to make his life so crazy. When did he suddenly get three boys to care for?

Beside him, the eldest of those three is sagging with exhaustion and John hitches the boy's arm, which is currently draped over his own broad shoulders, so he's taking a little more of his son's weight.

Sam is laying the other kid onto the couch and John is proud of him for carrying the stranger all the way to the house. His boy is strong, stronger than John gives him credit for.

The elder Winchester is relieved to see the new arrival at their house is starting to regain consciousness although, guiltily, he wishes for a minute's peace before the next drama starts. And even as he tries to force his brain into gear so he can deal with this latest turn of events, his thoughts are drowned out by the constant repetition of Dean's desperate, pleading monologue. He knows those words are going to haunt him for a long time to come.

"Sir…can I-," Dean stammers and John instinctively knows what his son is too nervous to ask.

"Sure," he nods, removing Dean's arm from his shoulders and making sure the boy is strong enough to support himself before releasing his grip.

He probably needn't have bothered as Dean falls to his knees the second he reaches the couch. The kid's biting on his already bruised lower lip and as one arm reaches out to gently tap the blond kid on the cheek, John can see it trembling.

"Robby?"

Dean sounds so emotionally weary that John just wants to put his arms back around the boy and get away from it all. If he could just stop time for a moment so he wouldn't have to constantly worry about what's coming next…about who else wants to hurt his boy. If he could just turn back time and drag Dean out of the fire with him and never let him out of his sight.

_Aren't you a little old for wishful thinking? _

John sighs and forces himself to deal with reality. Sam is tired, Dean is exhausted, and this 'Robby' is barely even conscious. Where exactly is John meant to start here?

"So, who's this then?"

John raises his eyebrows as Sam crouches down beside his brother, his tone light and conversational.

"Please don't hurt him," Dean replies automatically and Sam shakes his head in response.

"No one's gonna hurt him. We're gonna help him, okay? Like we helped you…"

John is happy to see Dean maintain eye contact throughout Sam's reassurances…well, he has to take happiness from _something _or he'll go insane.

Dean nods warily, still gently trying to rouse his friend. John's beginning to get the sickening feel that the boy might be more than just knocked out. His suspicions are confirmed when the boy manages to crack one eye blearily open.

It's not the vacant, unfocused stare that causes John to gasp, but the bloody redness of the eye where the kid's ocular capillaries have burst.

And then, as he picks up the baseball cap that has fallen from Dean's shaking hand, John's wordless gasp turns into a shocked cry of surprise, alarm and disbelief.

"Oh, my God…"

It's the second set of markings he's read lately that have the power to render him near-speechless. This time they're written, thankfully, not in flesh, but in faded permanent marker on the inside of the cap.

Two words that send John's mind into overdrive all over again.

'Robert Singer'


	14. Chapter 14

**So I managed to post today like I said, lol, but it took me a while, lol. I am NEEEERRRVVVOOOUUUSS about this chapter.  
So: Some extra warnings today; A fair bit more Dean angst than normal, more bad language than usual, and some Nasty!John. No abuse or anything but he is an ass in this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

"You really shouldn't be walking on that leg."

Dean heaves an irritated sigh as Sam admonishes him. What does it matter if he paces or not? What does it matter if he makes his leg worse? Why can't Sam just admit that it's pissing him off instead of dressing it all up as this pathetic pity-trip?

_Keep still, boy, or I'll break your fucking leg…again. _That's the way to get him to comply, Dean thinks bitterly as Edwin's voice echoes in his mind. Seeing that hut again, seeing Walker again, hell even seeing _Robby _again has dredged up all the memories Dean was doing so well at repressing.

_As if, _Dean scoffs at himself. Like he could ever forget those lessons. Like he could ever _afford_ to forget those lessons. _Keep still, keep silent, keep __**alive**_.

And yet…

"_Dean? Dean?! Dean, I'm going to find you!"_

So many memories, so much confusion…

"Yes, Si - Sam."

Dean obeys because he doesn't need to _think _much to obey. Obedience drowning out his conscious thought, he's choosing compliance over his own free will – just what Edwin always wanted…just what Edwin never achieved.

The young man sinks down beside Sam onto the hardwood floor hugging his knees to his chest and resting his chin on the makeshift platform provided by his joints. All the while his eyes are focused on the still form of his friend. His hands, well _hand_, is subconsciously playing with Robby's old baseball cap, turning it over and over, flipping it inside out and then back again, skimming over holes and snags in the material. It's grubby, damaged and unresponsive, just like Robby himself - Dean thinks this should be funny, if it was anyone else it _would _be funny, but this is Robby and it just makes him want to throw up.

Robby Singer - his best friend…his _only _friend. His cellmate, his colleague, his brother-in-arms - Robby is the only one Dean's ever trusted and now he's half-dead on a couch in the home of the two men most hated by Edwin's camp. Dean might as well have planted him in the centre of a giant bullseye.

_Sorry, buddy, looks like I earned you another beating._

Dean clenches his eyes shut in frustration and to stop his tears from falling. He wants to pace, to hit something, to do _anything _to take his mind off the fact that his best friend is hurt and weak and it's probably all Dean's fault, as usual. But Sam told him to stay still, so he settles for squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that it hurts and then tighter still.

And yet, even in the darkness of his mind, he can see Robby's red and bloody eye staring accusingly at him. Can see the grisly trail of dried blood streaking from Robby's ear and down his pale cheek. He can see Edwin's vicious smirk from all those years ago whilst the bastard had stood over Robby's battered body during Dean's punishment. He can see Walker whipping Robby's back to shreds for Dean's transgressions because he had 'a soft spot for you, Bait. No point whipping the skin off you when there's a little freak here to beat on'.

More memories, more fear and pain. Would it be so much to ask for one happy thought? One recollection that's not filled with hate and guilt and agony – is that so much to ask? How long can one vague, distant promise from someone Dean doesn't even remember sustain him? How long can he cling onto a promise that's already broken? How long can he fool himself into believing it when he _knows _no one's coming to save him? When he knows he's beyond saving?

_Stop whining! _he mocks himself. _You're alive, Robby's alive - isn't that enough for you? Hell, you even ate yesterday, __**twice**__; what more do you fucking want?_

Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and he jerks in alarm, jolted out of his tumultuous thoughts.

_Edwin? Walker? Time for another punishment?_

"Come on, man, try to relax."

_Oh, right…Sam._

Dean feels relieved as it dawns on him that it's Sam and not…not anyone else touching him. And that feeling of relief scares the shit out of him. What the fuck is _wrong _with him? You don't _relax _around the people that own you! You don't relax _ever _– another one of his lessons learned and remembered.

_Think about it, Dean! How sure can you be that his hand isn't going to come up and slap you across the face? How sure can you be that he's not going to dig that dainty little thumb of his into that pressure point that Edwin always __**knew **__that__you can't stand? _

Dean jerks his shoulder away violently, but it doesn't do anything to stem the frightening, near-hysterical tirade of thoughts gushing through his mind like a river.

And then, in a moment of clarity, Dean figures it out: obviously, Sam and John want him to get well because they **need **him well. That's why they're feeding him and healing him, so they can stick him out on the plains and have him run from whatever weapon or strategy they want to practice. Suddenly the new clothes and shoes make perfect sense.

Dean feels more in control for having worked it out and yet, he also feels oddly emotional. There's the compulsory fear, of course, there's always the fear. But there's something else, something Dean's never really experienced before. It certainly isn't the dull recognition and acceptance he usually feels.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend – yeah right! The enemy of my enemy is just another fucking enemy. _

If he'd ever been taught what it felt like to have hope, then Dean would be able to realise that this was what it felt like to have your hopes crushed. As it is, he can only recognise the emotion as a dull ache in his chest and a prickling behind his eyes.

Still, he ignores it and sucks it up as he balances Robby's cap on the end of his index finger before balling it up into his fist.

If he _is _going to be sent out onto the plains, there's a fair chance Robby will be sent out with him - they are a team, after all. And if they're together, they have a chance of surviving. Together against Edwin, they are each other's weakness. Together against the rest of the world, they're a force to be reckoned with.

Dean only just manages to hide his smirk as he stares down at Robby's old hat – John and Sam Winchester might think they've got the upper hand, but they're underestimating how tough he really is.

He survived Edwin and Walker after all and these guys aren't a patch on either of them.

_Is that such a bad thing? _ a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers and Dean quickly silences it. They're hunters and they're his owners, that makes them dangerous whether they've hurt him yet or not. That's all Dean needs to know.

* * *

Sam feels guilty as he looks at his brother sitting obediently on the floor. If someone Sam cared about was in the same state as Robby is now, he would want to pace, too. He's already buzzing with unexpected energy as the last of his endorphins flow through his bloodstream and it's made all the worse by the fact that everyone is silent when there's a hundred things that need to be said….business as usual in the Winchester family, then.

"It's for your own good, Dean," he breaks the silence with the first thing that comes to his mind, a habit he acknowledges that he really needs to get out of.

Dean's voice is hoarse and quiet. "Huh?"

"Not pacing," Sam explains weakly, vividly aware of his brother and father staring at him. "It's for your own…"

Dean just looks away with a resentful stare before Sam can finish and they're right back to the silence again.

"Yeah, right."

Or maybe not.

"Ain't as much of a challenge killing a cripple, is it?" Dean's head turns sharply to look at Sam and the emotion in those murky, green eyes takes Sam's breath away.

It's even enough to spur John out of his silent musings. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sam winces at his father's gruff, aggressive tone. The words are slightly slurred together, the reason for which is littered around John's feet. The closest thing Sam's ever had to a science project - two bottles of moonshine he cooked up a month ago in an attempt to boost camp morale. The alcohol content is low but so is humanity's tolerance after two decades of tee-totalling.

More worrying, however, is the fact that John even felt the need to swig down the stuff in the first place. 'Dutch courage' he'd called it but Sam knows the Netherlands had even weaker defences against the aftermath of 'Gate' than the USA, and he doesn't see anything courageous about that.

"As if you don't know!" Dean sneers sarcastically, "I might be just bait, but I'm not as dumb as you think I am!"

Sam sees his father's eyes darken with fury at this. Hearing Dean's pathetically low opinion of himself as 'just bait' makes Sam angry, too.

He's beginning to think that maybe the silence wasn't so bad after all.

"Don't talk like that," John orders, and Sam sees Dean flinch.

Of course, Dean doesn't know which part of the sentence John is referring to. He probably thinks John's telling him off for declaring himself to be smarter than he thinks John and Sam give him credit for.

"Or what?" Dean challenges with a scowl. "You'll kill me a few days earlier?"

Yep, just like Sam expected, his brother has got completely the wrong end of the stick.

"Get out."

Both Sam and Dean startle at John's harsh order.

"What?" Dean's tone is still aggressive, but now it's laced with confusion.

"Dad, calm down," Sam butts in, worried about the effect his father is having on the already terrified Dean. Dean's already convinced himself that John and Sam want to kill him, so shouting at him isn't going to do anything but reinforce that belief.

John simply points to the front door in response to both of them.

Sam turns to look at how Dean is coping and sees the elder man glancing at Robby on the sofa.

"I said get out," John repeats sternly and Sam watches as Dean reluctantly pulls himself to his feet. The elder man flinches as he walks past Sam and then gives John a wide berth as he heads for the door.

Sam can't believe this is happening. Has his Dad cracked? Was the stuff in those bottles really _that _strong? Surely Dad isn't going to cast Dean out on the streets, not after everything that's just happened? What the hell is he thinking treating Dean like this?

"Dad, what the -."

John cuts Sam off by simply turning and following his eldest son. Sam's curious (and worried) about what's going to happen, but it's pretty damn clear that he isn't invited to _this _little family get together. From the look on John's face, Sam isn't even sure that he wants to be.

* * *

John slams the door behind him and ignores the twinge of guilt as Dean flinches at the sudden sound.

"Come to give me that beating you've been saving, old man?"

Dean is still soaked through, making his clothes and hair stick to his pale skin. He's leaning more heavily on one leg than the other and his eyes are still red from his earlier tears. Some of the swelling has gone down from that black eye, but the ring of purple bruising is as vivid as ever. One sleeve flaps uselessly at his side with the arm intended to fill it pinned to his bruised chest.

And yet, John's frustration doesn't ease, even at the sight of his bedraggled, defiant son. The sight of those letters scribbled on the inside of the cap overlap any other image in his mind. The sound of Bobby screaming as he fought a futile battle against demons in the distance drowns out his quieter, more rational thoughts. The memories of fruitless weeks of searching for Bobby's corpse and the constant fear that has been with John ever since, the fear of seeing those crinkly, welcoming eyes flooded with the inky black of a demon's soul takes forefront in his mind, pushing out everything he's learned about how to deal with his traumatised eldest son.

No, his frustration has not eased, not one bit.

"Sit down," he barks.

Dean obeys, sliding down the house wall until he's seated, leaning against one of the supporting stilts. As usual, his knees are hugged up to his chest, but his neck is craning upwards as he takes in John's form leering above him.

"Now, do you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

John _knows _he's not angry with Dean. He _knows_ it's not Dean's fault that he thinks John killing him is a perfectly probable scenario. But Edwin's dead and Walker's gone and John has to take this out on _somebody _before it gets to a point where he can't cope, where his strikes become physical and not verbal – that _can't _happen. Does it have something to do with Bobby's cap and the subsequent emotional, rush? Does it have something to do with the two bottles of piss-poor alcohol he downed? Maybe, but it doesn't mean he's going to admit that to himself.

Dean simply glowers at him from his position on the muddy earth and John wants to scream. For crying out loud, he has a _right _to some fucking answers, doesn't he? He just found a hat belonging to his dead best friend and now he has this shit to deal with from Dean? Dean isn't the only one who's pissed off and confused.

"Talk to me." He means to say the words gently, but they emerge as a harsh growl. Well, he doesn't have the patience to correct that right now.

"Like it matters what I say," Dean mutters. "You're gonna kick the shit out of me anyway, right?"

The quiet resentment from Dean thankfully doesn't fuel John's frustration. On the other hand, it does nothing to quell it either.

"For fuck's sake, Dean, I am not going to kick the shit out of you!" the hunter cries in exasperation.

"A bullet then, is it?" If John was a little calmer and little closer to his son instead of towering above him, he might have noticed the tremor in Dean's voice, the hitch at the mention of a bullet.

As it is, he simply hears the assumption and slams his hand into his thigh in annoyance.

"That's what you think of me?!" His voice is higher than normal, pitching on hysteria, but he's too angry to notice, too angry to _care_.

"After everything I went through to find you! All the danger I put myself and Sammy in for you? Everything we've done since we found you and _that's_ what you fucking think of me?!"

"I-I dunno what you're talking about!" Dean sounds both scared and insistent now as John watches him pressing his back into the thick wooden support beam, wanting to escape.

"Exactly!" he bellows in bitter triumph. "You don't have a fucking _clue_ what I've gone through all these years."

"Was it my fault?" Dean swallows a lump in his throat. "I-I'm sorry, Sir. I'm really sorry. Whatever it was I did, I'm sorry. Please don't hurt Robby."

"Robby!" John continues to rant, beginning to pace in front of his son. "Yes, 'Robby' who has my dead best friend's baseball cap." John breaks his pacing to stare at Dean.

"Look Dean, I don't want to beat you, I don't want to kill you - _either of you_. All I want is a little trust." His voice is calmer now, eerily calm…falsely calm. "Why the hell is it so hard for you to give me that?"

Dean's short reply seems worthless in the wake of John's emotional tirade. On the other hand, the emotion packed into it rivals even John's fury.

"_Hunter_." He hisses the word like a curse. "You're all the same."

"All the same?!"

And then, in the aftermath of those three incredulous words, John's fury breaks like the swell of a wave, swamping his terrified son with its emotional significance.

"All the same?! I'm your fucking _**father**_,Dean!"

* * *

**So...tadaa? So, yeah, like I said, an ass. But I can honestly imagine John acting like that. Not abusive or cruel but...just a drunken ass at times. He was hardly father of the year after all. But yeah, I hope you enjoyed (?).**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: Okay, this is gonna be another heavy chapter. Extra warnings - memories of child abuse, lots of Dean!angst/whump (more than normal)**

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Sam can hear the muffled voices outside rising to shouting volume and it's taking everything he has not to storm out there and demand an explanation. The look of barely controlled anger on his father's face, and the look of fearful resignation that had haunted his brother's expression only fuels Sam's imagination of what's going on just metres away from him.

_Dammit, Dad, please don't screw things up any more_, he pleads silently, despite knowing that even if he spoke to his father's face, his words would go unheeded.

A soft exclamation of pain brings Sam's attention to matters at hand and he gasps as he sees Robby's eyes flicker open again, briefly, before the boy lapses back into unconsciousness.

With his attention already focused on the youth, Sam takes a minute to really study him. He's a short kid, shorter even than Dean and equally as underweight. Sam guesses the kid's somewhere in his late teens, seventeen maybe? Older?

A shock of scruffy, blond hair sprouts from a crown on the side of his head, sticking up in all directions. His eyes, or what Sam has seen of them, would have created a pretty kid were they blue. As it is, they're an unspectacular, murky grey but there's still _something _about them that makes Sam uneasy.

Feeling a shiver run through him, Sam looks elsewhere. The kid's clothes are ill-fitting and dirty. One of his bare arms is exposed and Sam can see four neat, round bruises along the forearm. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that there'll be a fifth, larger bruise on the underside of the limb. Sam's getting worryingly good at figuring out the origin of injuries and he hates it.

More alarming, however, are the injuries Sam _can't _explain: the bloodshot eyes and the multitude of needle marks smattering the crook of Robby's elbow. Sam's guessing that, if Robby had a similar upbringing to Dean, then those needles wouldn't have been intended for health reasons. The drugs Sam's heard about from the old days are all but extinct now, and Sam can't think what other reasons someone would have for being injected over and over.

Sam's eyes roam further and he takes in the baggy, black jeans, wondering what other injuries the dark denim is hiding. A faded, cord belt is wound round a too-thin waist and through a large metal buckle that's so dull it's more grey than silver.

The mismatched outfit is finished off with a pair of ragged, dirty sneakers, which is, Sam hates to acknowledge, more than Dean ever had.

"…Dean?"

Sam's so close to Robby that the unexpected, quiet murmur drowns out the shouting from outside.

"Hey…" Sam smiles as he watches Robby's eyes flutter open. The unnatural redness is kinda scary to look at and Sam has no idea what could happen to cause _that _sort of injury.

Dad would know, but Dad's too busy doing whatever he's doing with Dean and Sam doesn't fancy interrupting him.

"D-Dean? 'S 'at you?" the boy repeats, struggling to pull himself to a sitting position. His eyes are vacant and unfocused, sliding to look at Sam before wandering to take in the rest of the room. Sam can't be sure if the boy is seeing anything at all.

"I'm not Dean," Sam explains as the boy finally manages to sit up. Looking at the kid face to face, Sam can't help but notice the one dilated pupil, the way the kid is pitching to one side, all of it, and he has no idea what to do.

"You look like him…," Robby slurs and Sam frowns. He can't say he's noticed any resemblance between the two of them.

"Not like…not like _that_."

Sam has _no _idea what the kid is talking about and he's beginning to worry that Dean's only friend is a complete nutcase. Knowing Dean's life and Sam's luck, it would make sense.

"Save your strength," he replies quietly, reaching out a hand to steady the kid as he sways precariously.

"Maybe sitting up isn't the best idea, huh?" he jokes as he lowers the kid until he's lying back down.

"'S Dean alright?"

Sam can just barely make out the mumbled words and he nods in response.

"Dean's….Dean's fine," he lies, not having a clue what's going on just beyond the front door.

"…lying…"

This time Sam only catches one whispered word as the boy's eyes roll back in his head. And even though that's a sure enough sign that the boy won't hear his reply, he can't help but mutter it anyway.

"How did you know?"

* * *

Dean's always hated his overactive mind. Always hated the fact that he can never stop imagining the worst-case scenarios, always hated the constant whispers of fear and self doubt that make him question every action and keep him awake at night.

Right now, however, he'd give anything to be able to form a coherent thought.

The corner of the wooden supporting beam is jutting painfully into his spine. Cold raindrops are trickling slowly down his face and the back of his neck, making him shiver. And all the while, the hulking form of John Winchester is leering down at him through slightly glazed eyes, wiping out his ability to think and replacing it with fear.

And none of those observations are any use to him what-so-fucking-ever because he needs to think of something to _say_!

_Think, think, think! _Dean orders his stunned mind, which seems to be stuck in an infinite loop of 'I'm your fucking father, Dean!'

His mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to croak out his meager reply.

"No, you ain't…"

John's expression falters at this and Dean's relieved to see some of the anger fade from the older man's face. He still can't help but cringe, though, as the man crouches down beside him until they're finally eye to eye. Well, they would be if Dean could bring himself to look into those conflicted brown eyes.

"God…Dean…" John runs a hand through his hair and Dean flinches again at the sudden movement. God, he just wants to agree with the older man so he'll leave him alone, but a distant cry in the back of his mind pleads with him not to.

"You ain't, you ain't, you ain't, you ain't…" Dean repeats the almost-silent litany desperately over and over to himself, clinging to his denial like it's the only thing that can save him from the agony of the realisation that John Winchester _might_ be telling him the truth.

"Dean?" Dean gasps at John's voice, breaking off his mantra and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Dean, look at me."

That's an order so Dean obeys, opening his eyes and staring at John's chest. He can't help the terrified sob that escapes his throat as John reaches out to touch him, expecting that large hand to grab him by the throat and choke him.

"Dean…I…" Now their roles are reversed and John's the one avoiding Dean. "I'm so sorry."

Dean doesn't know what John is apologising for or how to react (hell, he can count the number of times someone's apologised to him on one hand) so he settles for not reacting at all – just sitting in the rain, trembling, silent, and afraid.

With John's face this close to his own, he can still smell the trace of alcohol on the man's breath. He remembers the time Walker had 'persuaded' him to try something he'd brewed up and the awful, disoriented feeling that came over him. Is John Winchester under the same effects? Is that what's changing his personality so drastically? This man doesn't seem like the gentle, understanding guy that had patched up Dean's wounds. Or maybe this is just John Winchester's true colours finally emerging? Yeah – that makes more sense.

"No wonder you don't believe me," John sighs bitterly and Dean _still _doesn't know what to say.

"Dean, I - what I just said, I'm…well, I didn't mean it…," John stammers ineffectually, like _he _doesn't know what to say either and Dean finally finds his voice again.

"Which bit, Sir?"

"Don't call me, Sir," John sighs in reply, sinking off his haunches until he's sitting in the mud, too. "I don't deserve any respect from you."

"Sorry Si - sorry." Dean's managing to calm down a little as he takes in John's defeated posture and realises the man probably doesn't have the energy to beat him to death right now.

"Don't apologise either," John replies and then curses in frustration, causing Dean to tense back up.

"Jesus Christ, look at me – still ordering you around after everything. Some fucking father…"

Dean just shrugs at this, knowing if he agrees, he'll get a beating for being rude and if he disagrees, he'll get a beating for contradicting his owners. Oh yes, he knows this game well.

"You really don't believe me…," John observes and Dean shrugs again – what does his opinion matter?

"Why?" John questions, and Dean clenches his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking.

"My Dad's dead," he replies quietly.

There's no emotion there, Dean can't grieve for a man he doesn't remember. Dean doesn't even know how to grieve, doesn't even know it's what people _do _when their loved ones die.

"Did Edwin tell you that?" John asks, trying to keep the anger out of his voice and fight the effects of his inebriation. "Do you remember?"

Dean remembers alright, remembers Edwin screaming at his four-year-old self as he'd cried and pleaded for his Daddy.

"_Shut the fuck up!"_

He remembers those first seeds of self doubt that had blossomed into a full-blown self-loathing as he had progressed through adolescence.

"'_Your Daddy sold you to me. He said you were a bad kid and he just wanted it to be him and Sammy from now on."_

He remembersa passionate cry filled with all the fury a four-year-old child could muster.

"_No, he didn't! I want my Mommy!" _

He remembers Edwin's sick, gleeful grin.

"_Mommy's dead, Bait! She burned."_

He remembers screaming and then flying at Edwin's impossibly large form with tiny fists and feet and screaming all the while in wordless rage and agony.

He remembers the first time someone deliberately tried to hurt him – the glimpse of what was to be his life for the next twenty years.

Remembers what he's _always _tried to remember.

"_Daddy's coming to find me, he __**promised**__!"_

But that's something new, something he'd forgotten - his _father_ had been the one to make that promise? Or is that just his brain trying to piece together whatever fragmented memories survived Edwin's teachings and coming up with a conclusion?

"You don't remember?" John prompts, and Dean shivers; he doesn't want to go _there _again.

"He told me about y - about my father," he replies. It seems weird that such plain, innocuous words can hide such horrific, terrifying memories.

"About **me**?" John corrects. Some of that previous anger has crept back into his tone as he picks up on Dean's slip of the tongue and Dean grits his teeth – careless _again_.

John's eyes are still partly glazed, his cheeks red as though he's blushing. The man might be sobering up in the cold wind and rain, but he's still unpredictable enough to terrify Dean.

"My Dad's dead!" He yells, fear fuelling the volume and desperation in his voice. "He's dead! He has to be! He promised he'd find me and he didn't so he must be dead."

Dean can feel his emotions that he's usually so good at oppressing bubbling to the surface. All the fear and sorrow that he'd lived through every morning as he woke up and realised he was in for another day of pain and abuse. The abandonment he'd forgotten how to feel as he'd lain chained, cold and hungry in the dark. The helpless anger and self-loathing as he realised Edwin was right and Dean was wrong and there was no one coming to save him, after all.

"I **hate **him anyway!" Dean screams, because for once, he wants to hate someone else and not himself. "He promised he'd find me and he left me with Edwin and Walker and left me in a - a fucking nightmare, left me in _Hell _my whole fucking life?!"

Dean yanks himself upright until it's John looking up at _him _for once.

"Tell me, Sir."

He's trembling all over, his legs are barely even holding him upright, but Dean can feel nothing but the white hot _burn _of his emotions.

"Tell me, John Winchester…what kind of a father is _that_?!"


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

As soon as Sam hears Dean shouting, he launches to his feet and pushes the front door open, uncaring of what Dad will say. Sam knows Dean only ever raises his voice when he's scared, and when Dean's scared, Sam wants to be there.

He feels briefly guilty about leaving Robby alone, but Robby's a stranger and Dean is…well…_Dean,_ and he has to come first. Besides, it hardly seems like Robby is going to be leaping off the couch and running away any time soon.

_But you thought that about Dean, too, didn't you?_

By the time Sam arrives outside, both John and Dean are on their feet and they're not alone. Sam curses the fact that he's not only left his weapon behind in the house, but that he's left it within easy reach of Robby and-

And it's Pastor Jim, so all that doesn't matter. Sam breathes a deep sigh of relief, the Pastor's mere presence calming him down.

"Pastor Jim!" he greets happily, his smile fading when the man doesn't even acknowledge him. And _then _he remembers that not _everyone_ is used to seeing Dean Winchester. He remembers that _other people _knew Dean before 'Gate' and that Pastor Jim was one of them.

And as his eyes flicker between his brother, his father and the man who's like an uncle to him, he realises how beat up and dishevelled Dean really is. He's kind of gotten used to that now and he doesn't notice the cuts and bruises so much anymore when he's searching his brother's expressions to try and figure out what's going on in his mind. Sam remembers when he first saw his brother and how shocked he had been, and he empathises with the Pastor.

On the other hand, Jim's staring is clearly spooking Dean, whose eyes are darting between John in front of him, Sam and Jim on either side of him, and the wall behind him. John's expression is stuck somewhere between glowering and grovelling and Pastor Jim is just out and out horrified.

And it's flippin' silent – **again**!

Sam opens his mouth to speak, cut off by Jim Murphy's shocked but gentle exclamation.

"Dean…my son…" The Pastor is literally rubbing his eyes like he can't believe what he's seeing.

Dean steps back slowly, away from the Pastor's advances, before he realises that he's stepping closer to Sam and he freezes in place. Sam can see him tense up.

"You trying to say _you're _my father too?" Dean glares suspiciously but with a hint of exasperation that makes Sam chuckle before he realises what Dean has just said.

'_My father….too…'_

'Too' meaning 'also', 'as well as', 'in addition to'...

'Too' meaning that Dad has just broken the most important news of Dean's life to him outside in the cold and the rain while Dean is panicking about his friend and undoubtedly still in shock from his encounter with Walker.

Sam tries to think of a worse time that his Dad could have chosen and can't find one.

And whilst Sam's rage at his father is simmering and bubbling quietly within him, the conversation continues regardless.

"You don't remember me," Pastor Jim observes. His voice is tinged with sadness and resignation, like this is what he expected all along.

"I-I'm sick of remembering!" Dean shouts back, taking another hesitant half-pace backwards.

"Dean, what's the matter?" Jim asks cautiously as it dawns on him that things aren't _quite _what he'd expected to find. "It's okay, you can talk about it."

"I don't **want **to talk about it!" Dean shoots back. "I want to go see Robby and…and I want to get away from _**him**_!" He whirls to face John, pointing an accusing finger at the man.

Sam watches Pastor Jim look confusedly at Dad, who won't meet the man's eyes. The cleric's face is lined with cautious concern.

"That's enough," John placates. "Stop this now, Dean."

Sam knows that sometimes Dean _needs _orders. Sometimes Dean needs to have a break from all the confusion and have some instruction to follow so that he can feel safe in the knowledge that he's obeying.

Right now, however, all he needs is a little space and some _compassion_! Why can't their father understand that?

"Don't talk to him like that!"

Dean jumps at the unexpected sound of Sam's voice and hastily steps backwards.

"Not you, Dean," Sam quickly explains. "In fact, I think getting away from him is probably the best thing we could do right now," he declares firmly.

He doesn't think he's ever done anything _this _defiant before, but for some reason he's not at all scared. He feels strong and capable and so much smarter than his father. Right now he feels he could just waltz in and get a place on the judiciary any time he wanted.

"Pastor Jim?" he prompts, his tone snapping the elder man into action.

"O-of course, Sam. You…you two…"

"…Three?" Dean pipes up warily, glancing briefly at the house before casting a nervous but trusting look at Sam, who nods in determination, loving the brief, unexpected smile that flickers across Dean's face.

"You…three," Jim continues. "You're all welcome, any time."

And right now, that's an offer Sam can't refuse.

* * *

Jim can feel Dean Winchester's eyes burning holes in the back of his skull and it's taking every ounce of self discipline he has not to turn around and meet the boy's stare. He's already tried that twice, and the way Dean had immediately dropped his gaze to the floor and the subsequent fear that had flashed across his features is enough to persuade him never to do it again.

_It's just like Sam said, _the older man thinks sadly. _He's broken._

And as he thinks about this Dean, here and now, the cleric can't help but compare him to the smiling, gurgling baby he'd baptised; the bright, cheeky kid who'd struggled to sit still through Sunday school.

Where is that boy in the angry, frightened man that Dean Winchester has become?

Jim does his best to push those dark thoughts to the back of his mind where they belong. No one is beyond saving; Jim believes that with wholehearted conviction.

With this in mind, the pastor hands two glasses of holy water over to Sam.

"He'll probably take these better from you than from me," he states, and after a brief pause, Sam nods in agreement.

"You really think Robby could be a demon?" The young hunter keeps his voice low and quiet so that Dean, in the adjoining room, won't hear.

"I think it's better not to take any chances," Jim replies before smiling. "Besides, the boy probably needs a drink."

Sam smiles at this, too, and Jim is relieved.

"It's nice to see you smiling again, Sam," he says as he places a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"So much has happened…" Sam sighs, staring at the brief glimpse of reflection he can see in the water's surface. "And everything's so different now."

"I know," the pastor sympathises. "We'll just do the best we can."

Sam snorts quietly. "Tell that to Dad."

"Seems like there's _some _things that are still the same," Jim chuckles as he hears Sam once again berating his father.

"Well, it's true!" Sam insists. "First, he just leaves Dean on his own, and then he yells at him in the rain and breaks the news that we're his _family_ in the worst-."

"Sam!" Jim cuts the tirade short, watching as Sam glares at him and fights the urge to say more. The kid has the passion to be on the judiciary alright, Jim notes ruefully.

"Sam, I know your father is struggling and it sounds like he's made a lot of mistakes."

Sam snorts again at this and Jim shakes his head in mock despair.

"The one thing you need to remember is that your father _loves_ Dean. No ifs, ands or buts; Dean's his son and he loves him."

"Well he-"

"Have _you _managed to go these past two days without scaring your brother or upsetting him?" Jim questions. He's careful not to sound accusatory, just thoughtful, and it seems to work as some of the irritation drains from Sam's face.

"Well…" Sam stammers for a minute and Jim can't help but wonder what the boy is remembering.

He feels _starved _for information on Dean; what he's lived through, who he's become. All Sam managed to tell him on the way over was what a mess John had apparently made of things and how he didn't know who the blond kid (who Sam happened to be carrying over his shoulders at the time) was.

"It's different!" Sam finally blurts out. "I wasn't doing it on purpose!"

"And John was?" Jim asks with raised eyebrows, watching as Sam blusters wordlessly.

"Look," Jim continues gently, "I know your Dad has probably not handled some things as well as you, but think of the emotions he's going through. Think about how _guilt _affects your judgement. John wants Dean to be alright _now _so that he can relieve some of that gigantic burden off his own shoulders even though, inside, he _knows _it can't happen like that. He's conflicted."

"It's not a-."

"No, it's not an excuse," Jim continues, interrupting the only slightly calmer teenager in front of him. "Taking Dean out in the rain and endangering his health like he did is inexcusable. But, if you think about it, that's probably the most emotional your father has ever been."

"So?" Sam scowls. "Why are you sticking up for him?"

"I'm not 'sticking up for him'," Jim counters calmly, "but now Dean has seen your father at his most emotional and at his least self-controlled and he's _still _come out of it unscathed. You never know," Jim shrugs. "It might have done him some good."

* * *

Sam watches as Dean cajoles Robby into wakefulness; he's never seen his brother like this before. There's none of the fear, or the anger, or the misery (or there's less of it, at least), and in its place, there's a gentleness that Sam would never have expected his older brother was capable of.

Dean's currently seated on Pastor Jim's battered two-seater, Robby sitting upright but slumped against him with his head resting on Dean's shoulder. Sam sits on the wonky coffee table across from them.

"C'mon, Rob, just drink a mouthful," Dean is coaxing quietly, pressing the glass to Robby's lips.

The kid manages, with difficulty, to swallow a couple of sips before emerging into a few seconds of choking.

Dean removes the glass with a glare at Jim and Sam.

"See, no steam. Happy now?" he snaps nervously.

"I'd be happier if he drinks the whole thing," Jim comments. "He looks dehydrated."

"So?" Dean replies defensively, seemingly not realising that Pastor Jim is trying to help, not criticise. "He's _always _dehydrated - we both are."

"Well," Jim replies, exchanging a brief, horrified glance with Sam, "we'll have to fix that."

Sam watches as Dean shuffles on the couch until Robby's limp, semi-conscious form is nestled against him more comfortably. And as Sam watches the way his brother protectively holds the boy close, the way his hand falls seemingly subconsciously on Robby's wrist so that he must be able to feel the pulse thrumming under there, the young hunter can't hold it in any longer.

"Are you gonna tell us who he is?" Sam blurts out, watching as Dean immediately tenses up.

"I already told you, he's my friend," his brother replies nervously before drawing on some sort of hidden conviction. "Y-you can't get rid of him. John promised me he'd look after him. He-he said-."

"We're not 'getting rid of him'," Pastor Jim promises quickly.

"We just want to know a little bit more about him," Sam explains.

And since Dean has no idea how to talk unless someone's asking him a question, Sam helps him out a little. "How did you meet?"

"He's…well, he was, he…" Dean's fumbling his words now and Sam can see him shaking.

"It's not a test," Jim assures the frightened man and Dean seems to relax…a fraction….barely.

"W-we shared a cell," Dean tries again, looking in between Sam and Pastor Jim. It's clear that Dean's thinking hard about what to say. Sam can tell he's holding back and it wouldn't surprise him if the older man was lying completely. He wouldn't blame Dean for it, either.

"We hunted together, sometimes, for Edwin. I-I was bait and he was the lookout."

Dean goes so pale at this that Sam half expects the holy water Dean just downed to come right back up again.

"Please don't make us g-." The older man catches himself before he can finish, biting down on his lip so hard he draws blood in attempt to stop the frightened plea emerging.

He settles for simply finishing, "W-we helped each other out…"

There's a pause before Dean continues.

"We kept each other alive."

And Sam hates that this latest horrific glimpse into Dean's past is so tame compared to the other talks they've shared that it's enough to cheer him up.

One thing's for sure though: if Robby makes Dean happy, then Robby isn't going anywhere- Sam's making sure of THAT.

* * *

**AN: Lol, this chapter took soooo long to type because I kept typing 'Pastor Him' instead of 'PastorJim'. Props to megancassady for an amazing beta and props to all you guys for the wonderful reviews you leave. I really appreciate it sooo much and thanks for not getting sick of the fic.**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Hi everyone, thank you all so much for the lovely reviews you left last chapter! Just a quick warning here that there's some memories of abuse in this chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

"C'mon, Dean, you gotta get changed," Sam is insisting and Dean scowls – will this kid ever stop pestering him?

"Why?" the young man retorts, eyeing Sam suspiciously. He only just _got _these new clothes; he's not giving them up so easily.

"Because you're soaked through and you're going to get sick," Sam replies and Dean looks away as he considers this – it _does _make sense…not that he's going to admit that to Sam.

"So?" he challenges.

"So, you need to get changed," Sam responds with logic that Dean is just not up to competing with.

"Yes, Sir," he mutters unhappily as he reluctantly begins to strip off his drenched, formerly warm fleece shirt.

"We'll take a look at those injuries while you're at it," Sam continues while Dean struggles to pull his sweater over his head with only one arm.

_Crafty bastard…., _Dean thinks to himself as he finally tugs the soaked garment off. It's only when Jim expectantly holds his hand out that Dean falters.

"It's mine!" he snarls defensively, glaring at the older man and daring him to come closer as he automatically hugs his balled-up fleece shirt tightly to his chest. It presses painfully against the deep bruising, but he ignores it, clinging onto the garment like it's the most valuable thing he owns. All things considered, it probably is.

"I was only going to put it by the fire so it would dry," the pastor replies calmly.

Dean pales as Jim reminds him of the roaring fire burning in the fireplace. He's doing his best to ignore it and if Jim thinks Dean's going to go any closer than he already is then he's got another think coming. The young hunter turns his attention to the older man in attempt to forget about the flames just ten feet away from him.

Dean likes how slowly Jim talks; it's so much easier to keep up with than Sam's babbling. But that doesn't mean he trusts the man enough to just hand over his clothes to him. After all, winter is coming, and while Dean's lived through the snow and cold in vests and short-sleeved shirts before, he doesn't want to do it again if he doesn't absolutely _have _to.

On the other hand, a soaking wet shirt is hardly going to keep him any warmer than no shirt at all, and even Edwin hadn't made him spend the harsh season shirtless, so _maybe_ it's okay.

"It's mine," Dean reminds Jim warily as he reluctantly hands over the scrunched-up garment.

The older man simply smiles in acceptance and Dean's half tempted to smile back before he catches himself and settles his features back into the familiar scowl that he's so used to.

And then, Jim's smile is gone, too, and Dean wishes he'd kept hold of his shirt, after all. The young man is grateful for John's bandages obscuring the ugly bruises on his damaged ribcage, but he can't hide the rest of his scars or the way his hand is taped so pathetically to his chest. He knows it's only a matter of time before Jim sees his arm, sees the tattoo that Dean is so deeply ashamed of.

_What does it matter? You don't even know him!_

And even as he tries to convince himself that he doesn't care, Dean curls his left arm around his aching chest and presses the underside of his arm against his damp bandages in an attempt to hide those old scars.

One glance at Sam's face shows that the younger man knows exactly what the matter is and Dean hates himself for being so transparent.

"It's alright, Dean," Sam says, like he has a _clue _what it feels like to be fucking tied down and branded. Like he understands what it's like to look down at yourself and have a constant reminder that even your body isn't your own.

Not for the first time, Dean just wants to disappear, wants to be thrown into a cell and forgotten about for a few days. He feels ashamed of his wounds and scars and those fucking initials tattooed into his arm. He's terrified of _why _he's ashamed because he's never really had enough self-worth to give a shit before now. And as he realises this, he's angry at himself for even feeling _anything_.

"Fuck off." His reply, intended as a cocky comeback, emerges as nothing more than a strangled mumble.

"Maybe I will," Jim replies with a gentle, accepting smile and Dean falters again. He can feel his brow creasing in confusion as he tries to process the man's reaction.

This isn't what's supposed to happen…

* * *

_**If the fourteen-year-old is honest, his legs are shaking so much that kneeling down would almost be a luxury for him. But Edwin's ordered it and Dean'll be damned if he's going to kneel down in front of all of Edwin's nameless cronies like some fucking pet performing tricks….even if, deep down, he knows that's all he is. **_

"_**Fuck off," he responds sullenly, clinging to his illusion of pride with every ounce of courage he can muster. **_

_**The look Edwin gives him is terrifying enough to have Dean dropping to his knees, even before he hears the mumbled, perfectly pronounced Latin emerging from his owner's lips.**_

_**And then white-hot pain has him collapsing onto his side as he curls into a tight, trembling ball, unable to stop the screams of pain and repentance that tear from his throat without his permission.**_

_**Dean sags with relief as, seconds later, his mind is released from the crippling pain of Edwin's incantation. He doesn't have the strength to resist as Edwin pulls him upright with a fist in the front of his shirt.**_

"_**You'll obey me, Bait, one way or the other. You'll always obey me."**_

* * *

Sam watches as Dean's eyes glaze over and he gives his brother's shoulder a brief shake to rouse him.

Dean jolts at this, his eyes darting around the room before they settle on Jim in the doorframe and then Sam in front of him.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam asks cautiously, watching to see if Dean's eyes focus.

"Yes, Sir," Dean mumbles automatically and Sam can tell he's not out of the flashback yet.

"Do you know where you are?" he checks and then realises Dean probably doesn't have a clue – after all, the guy doesn't know anywhere but the Winchester house, the plains, and Edwin's cells.

Dean doesn't reply and Sam gives him another gentle shake.

"Stay with me, Dean," he half orders, half pleads.

"Yes, Sir," Dean replies again, looking at the floor. Sam tilts Dean's chin until the guy is looking at him.

"What's my name?"

Dean licks his lips before answering hoarsely. "Sam."

"You alright?" Sam asks carefully, watching as his brother runs his hand over his face wearily.

"Yeah, fine, sorry," the elder man replies distractedly. "Just remembering…"

Sam _knows _it's wrong to take advantage of Dean's disorientation to pry for information and he feels guilty for it even as he feels the questions forming on his lips.

"What were you remembering, Dean?"

Dean's tone is hollow as he answers vacantly. "Edwin…"

And then more quietly, "Pain…"

"Another beating?" Sam asks with a sinking heart and Dean shakes his head, coming round a little more.

"My head," he explains, sounding to Sam and Jim like a little kid.

At Sam's uncomprehending look, Dean continues.

"He…he did a binding ritual on m…on us." Dean gestures to himself and then to Robby. "He just has to say this one incantation and it feels like my whole head is gonna burst…"

Dean is subconsciously scratching the back of his head as though he's remembering the pain. Sam feels sick as he watches the seemingly benign action and tries to imagine what agony Dean must have gone through.

"A binding ritual?" Jim finally moves away from the doorway and Dean turns to look at him before looking down at the floor.

"I'm sorry I told you to…to fuck off, Sir," he whispers docilely and Jim shakes his head.

"I already forgot about that," he lies, "but I forgive you anyway."

Dean smiles tentatively at this and, as happy as Sam is to see him smiling, it's a little jarring to see Dean so compliant for so long – whatever flashback Dean just relived has really taken the fight out of him.

"A ritual like that is a scary thing to have hanging over your head," the pastor comments. Unlike Sam, he clearly knows what a 'binding ritual' is.

"'S just easier for him," Dean comments. "He said it was good for…for when he didn't want to get his hands dirty."

"Can Walker use this too?" Sam questions nervously. The thought of anyone wielding that sort of control over his brother makes him furious. At the same time, knowing how hard Dean fought and argued even _with _the constant threat of crippling pain that could come over him at any moment…Sam's in awe.

"He used to be able to," Dean explains and Sam watches as a shudder runs through the elder man. "But John signed the blood contract when…" Dean falters for a second, "when he claimed ownership of me. It's just him now."

Dean pauses as he glances over at Robby. "For me, anyway," he adds.

"I'll have to remind him to rip that contract up," Sam comments determinedly, before blushing when Dean and Jim look at him like he's an idiot.

"It takes more than that to neutralise a binding ritual, especially an old one," Jim explains.

The pastor looks to Dean at this and the young man responds quietly to the unasked question. "Nineteen years."

Sam curses under his breath. "This thing sounds really dangerous," he sighs, his own head aching in sympathy for his brother.

"It is," Jim replies before shifting his gaze and studying the barely conscious, blond boy slumped on his sofa.

"Do you know what happened to your friend, Dean?" the pastor asks and Dean startles at the question, automatically placing an arm protectively over Robby's chest.

"He's fine," Dean replies unconvincingly. "He…he's okay, he's just…tired, is all."

"Dean…" Sam hates to do this but he feels Pastor Jim may be onto something here. "Show him Robby's eyes."

"It's nothing to do w-," Dean blurts automatically before he realises what Sam means and reluctantly peels back Robby's eyelid. Sam gets a fleeting glimpse of the overly-dilated pupil before Robby's eyes roll back into his skull and he's left looking at the blood-red sclera.

"You said Gordon Walker could use this magic, too, right?" Sam prompts. He can _see _Dean trying to come up with some sort of denial and it breaks his heart.

"You think he…you think he overdid it?" Dean questions nervously and Jim nods sadly.

"Maybe."

Dean curses quietly at this, throwing his friend a concerned glance. "Robby…"

"But there's one way to find out for sure," the Pastor continues. "I just happen to know the best healer in Camp," he smiles.

Dean's reply is instant. "I'll give you anything you want!"

"What I want," Jim begins, "is for you three boys to be happy and healthy again."

And for some reason, when _Jim _says it, Sam realises that it actually sounds remotely possible.

* * *

**AN: Okay, so the action is going to start picking up a little more next chapter but I hope you enjoyed this one anyway.**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

* * *

John doesn't know if it's the fact that Jim's house is attached to a church, thatthe cozy warmth of the fire is spreading throughout the room, or that a peaceful quiet has settled over the cheery home, but a serene sense of calm is flooding over him and soothing his frazzled nerves. What he _does_ know, though, is that he sure as hell could've done with this calmness three hours earlier when he was yelling drunkenly at his frightened son.

The hunter's eyes are shimmering with unshed tears as he studies the boy who, mere hours ago, had been crouched in the mud, trembling with cold and fear and desperately trying to defend himself against accusations he didn't even understand.

Presently, his eldest is slumped comfortably on Jim's well worn leather two-seater, his chin resting on his chest and his eyes closed. With the boy's shirt off and the tight bandages unravelled, John can see his chest rising and falling slowly, as well as the sickening spread of bruises spread in a wide swath across his eldest's ribs. It's clear from the lack of grime and mud that Dean's bathed again. His apparent drowsiness makes John think that he's probably eaten, too.

John stands before his son, who has his every need met and feels safe enough to fall asleep, and wonders just how much of a failure it makes him when the childless Pastor Jim can take far better care of Dean than John himself can.

Next to Dean, Robby is also asleep, that familiar baseball cap perched on his head. John longs to take hold of it and to read those two words again, to just hold that memento of his best friend once more.

"You'd better not wake him."

John doesn't need to turn around to see who's speaking; he can recognise Sammy's pissed-off tone from a mile away.

"It's the first time he's slept in two days," Sam continues, as if John might have forgotten that bit of information.

"I know, Sammy." John is so damned tired that his voice doesn't have the energy to convey his tumultuous emotions and his reply emerges as a defeated sigh.

"Might've been a good idea to let him go to bed instead of dragging him out into the rain in the middle of the night," Sam comments snidely and John sighs again.

The hunter can't help but wonder how his son, whose upbringing contained barely any female influence, has grown up to be such a bitchy mother hen.

"Johnathon Winchester!"

John freezes at the sound of a worryingly familiar voice.

_Speaking of mother hens…_

"Missouri…" John can _feel _himself cringing as he forces himself to turn around.

Standing framed in the doorway is the most terrifying woman John's ever met. Small, curvy and dressed in a less-than-intimidating wool cardigan, it's not her physical presence that intimidates John, but the harsh stare of those deep, brown eyes and the even harsher tongue that John knows is going to be lashing at him any second now.

"Oh, you better be worried!" Missouri comments as she makes her way towards him. As is often the case, John can never tell if the psychic has read his thoughts or if it's just his expression that's given him away.

Beside him, John can hear Sam chuckling and he figures that if Sam's smiling then at least _one _good thing can come out of the lecture he's undoubtedly going to get.

"You find your boy alive and you don't come tell either me or Jim?" Missouri questions incredulously. "What's wrong with you?"

_Oh, yes, __**that **__had sure been at the top of his priority list… _John grumbles internally, jumping at Missouri's unexpected reply.

"Well, it shoulda been!" the psychic insists. "You find your boy in a state like that, you need all the help you can get. So typical of you Winchesters; struggling on your own when there's a dozen people waiting in the wings to help you…"

John hears Sam chuckling over the sound of Missouri's muttering and he realises how utterly bizarre it must be to see a fully- grown man belittled like a child by a five-foot-nothin', middle-aged woman.

"And don't you be laughing, Sammy."

Now it's John's turn to smirk as Missouri turns her attention to his youngest son.

"You got a tongue in your head, ain't you, boy? You got legs? I don't see no reason you couldn't have come found us, either."

Sam falters at this, his mouth almost comically agape.

"Stubborn," Missouri grumbles as she comes to stand in between them. "Just like your father."

"Sorry," Sam mumbles and John nods in agreement, not _quite _able to admit the sentiment himself.

"Oh, you two…" Missouri sighs sadly, taking hold of John's hand gently. "I _know_ you're doing the best you can," she sympathises, her eyes looking past John to Dean who's slowly fumbling into wakefulness, roused by the conversation.

John bows his head, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

"Taking him outside, shouting at him like that…" With John's head bowed, Missouri can whisper into his ear, and as she finishes her sentence, John is infinitely grateful that no one else can hear her words.

"Why, you're just as scared as he is, ain't you?"

* * *

Dean's struggling to keep up the pretence of sleep as he listens to the conversation going on around him. He's already risked a glance to see who would dare shout at John Winchester and he's irritated with himself for letting his curiosity get the better of him. Not half as irritated as he is with himself for actually dozing off in the first place, though.

"Alright, Dean, I know you just heard every word, so you might as well open your eyes."

That's Jim's voice. Dean frowns in confusion and annoyance as he hears it – this guy is more observant than John; Dean's gonna have to step up his game a little around him.

Dean blinks rapidly as he opens his eyes and he's alarmed to see so many people staring at him: Sam, John, Jim and now this new woman that, as far as Dean can tell, is the boss of them all. Which means she's the boss of him and Robby, too.

"Oh, my…"

The small woman, 'Missouri', is advancing toward him with a look in her expressive eyes that Dean can't quite interpret. The way she looks at him reminds him somehow of the way Robby stares at things and Dean knows _that _isn't normal. The stare makes him nervous and he glares right back, _daring _the woman to come closer.

"Oh, my poor boy…" she gasps, her eyes filling with tears and Dean looks away as he _finally _understands that look – pity.

"I ain't your boy. Y-you don't own me," he stammers, before nodding his head in John's direction. "He does."

And then, before he knows it, Missouri's hand is pressed gently against his forehead and rivulets of tears are streaking down the woman's rounded cheeks.

Alarmed by this, Dean jerks his head away from the woman's touch, staring suspiciously out of the corner of his eyes at her.

"Oh, Dean…" Missouri sighs tearfully and Dean hates the look of sympathy in her eyes.

"Don't pity me." His demand ends up sounding more like a desperate plea and he clenches his fist in frustration.

"Course I'm going to pity you!" the woman snaps and Dean startles - _this _sure wasn't what he was expecting.

"…huh?" The young man blinks owlishly as he tries to interpret the woman's change in pace.

"I see an upbringing like that, 'course I'm gonna pity you, boy! Lord knows you need some sympathy…" Missouri sighs again and Dean keeps his eyes on her as she steps back a pace.

"You…saw?" he ventures timidly, feeling dumber than ever as he seems to be the only one surprised by this.

"It's what I do, honey. I see into people." Missouri smiles gently but Dean quickly wipes the look off her face as realisation slowly dawns on him.

"Y-you weren't meant to see!" he stammers accusatorily as he realises this woman has just seen how pathetic his entire life has been, how he's managed to fuck everything up – has seen that he really is just a useless piece of bait.

"I didn't…I don't…no one's supposed to know what…" He has to fight to keep himself from crying and Missouri shakes her head sadly in response, her eyes searching over the young man again.

"Oh, Dean, honey, you got _nothing _to be ashamed of," she insists softly and Dean wonders how she could _know_ that. "I looked into you and I saw the bravest boy I've ever met."

Dean pauses briefly to consider this – it's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to him in his whole life.

"Stupidest more like it," he mumbles shyly as he thinks of all the beatings he managed to earn himself.

"Well," Missouri gives a brief shrug before gesturing to John. "You get that off your Daddy."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitches involuntarily at this, the closest he's come to a smile in a long while. He still has no idea how to act around this woman, but she's the only one who's decided not to handle him with kid gloves and Dean's as grateful as hell for that because at least this woman is gonna let him _know _when he's screwed up.

The only thing Dean needs to figure out now is what the hell she's doing there in the first place.

* * *

Sam tries not to feel nervous as he walks down the creaky, old stairs into Jim's basement. He knows that Jim hollowed the wide space out himself and despite the concrete walls, floor and ceiling, Sam has never been one hundred percent sure that the thing isn't about ready to collapse.

"Dean, are you okay?" he asks as he notices that Dean looks even more afraid than he does.

"Fine," Dean replies automatically, before mumbling, "'S just….underground."

Sam winces in sympathy, how could he have _not _seen that coming? Of course Dean isn't going to be in a hurry to go underground after spending so much of his life there.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Dean murmurs. Sam expects Dean's trying to reassure himself more than his younger brother.

"We won't be down here long," Sam assures, even though in reality, he has no idea how long this ritual is going to take.

"Alright, Dean, you just sit yourself down here."

Sam moves to clap his brother supportingly on the back, but Dean flinches away before he has a chance to follow through with the action.

_Just because he gave Missouri half a smile for half a second doesn't mean he's suddenly going to put his complete faith in you_, Sam berates himself.

_Twenty years as bait, _he reminds himself. _And you still haven't talked about the fact that the two of you are brothers_.

As his own thoughts start to annoy him, Sam's beginning to understand why his Dad gets so exasperated with him sometimes.

_Not now, Sammy_!, he orders himself in his best representation of his father's voice. _You gotta focus!_

And focus he does.

Dean's kneeling in the middle of the room and Jim is slowly unpinning the guy's arm from his chest. Dean flexes the limb experimentally. This new freedom of movement is thankfully distracting him from the actions of John and Missouri, who are currently chalking a pentagram around Dean and Jim. Distracting Dean was probably exactly what Jim was aiming for, Sam thinks, and he's once again in awe at the pastor's understanding.

Robby, who is worryingly _still _unconscious, is laid down on top of an empty bench since Dean had insisted he wasn't letting the kid out of his sight.

And that leaves Sam himself, who is desperately wishing he knew what on earth was going on so that he could actually help instead of just standing around like a lemon.

"Did you get what I asked for?" Missouri asks John as they view their now completed pentagram.

"Yeah," John nods, pushing past Sam and reaching into the battered duffel bag he brought with him.

As annoyed as Sam is about being shoved out the way (even though he knows he shouldn't expect much polite consideration when Dad's in hunting mode), he's relieved that his father didn't spend the short time by himself drinking the _rest _of Sam's homemade liqueur.

Sam wanders over to Missouri as Dad begins pulling things out of the bag and laying them on the floor at the psychic's feet. Sam recognises a towel from their bathroom, a plate from the kitchen and his Dad's favourite hunting knife. How those things are meant to be connected, Sam has _no _idea. And then there's the things he _doesn't _recognise: crushed crystals, a tea light candle, a piece of letter paper, matches…

Sam looks from the seemingly random assortment of items to his brother's form in the middle of the room, still neatly centred inside the pentagram. Sam can't help but notice that Dean's natural tendency is to kneel, not to sit. For the second time that day, Sam wishes he wasn't so observant.

"Sammy, quit gawking and help me with this."

Sam's grateful for his father's order, not only because it keeps his mind occupied, but because his Dad is finally trusting him to help with sorcery, something John's been reluctant to allow. Even more importantly than that, he's grateful because he gets to help Dean, and (even though Sam can't quite fathom why) thechance to look after his older brother is worth way more to Sam than any amount of approval from his father.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: ****Hi everyone, just to warn you there's some more memories of some pretty nasty Dean abuse this chapter**

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

"We need to make an altar."

John's tone is all business as he spreads the towel horizontally in front of himself on the bare concrete floor. He places the plate in the middle and Sam watches as his father sprinkles the pouch of crushed crystal onto it. The gems have been crushed so thoroughly that they're now just a glistening, white powder that shimmers in the firelight of the torches that line the basement walls.

Sam can see Dean watching them nervously. The guy is alone now that Jim has moved out of the pentagram and Sam knows he must be terrified, even if he doesn't look it – if Sam were in his position, _he _sure wouldn't be able to act as calm and tough as his older brother is acting right now. Sam wishes he could reassure his brother, but what could he say? He has _no _idea what's going on, how long it's going to take, what it will do to Dean…. The young hunter manages to crack a strained, wavering smile for a second, which just earns him a confused stare from Dean.

A hiss of pain catches Sam's attention and he's startled to see his father dragging the blade of the hunting knife across his palm. Sam's done the action himself a couple of times before so he knows it doesn't hurt much, but he still can't help but wince as he sees the thin line of crimson well up along his father's hand.

The sight of his father's blood trickling through his lightly clenched fist into the saucer of powder below is equally unsettling. Sam knows rituals involving human blood usually aren't pleasant and he's suddenly aware how neither Dad, Missouri or even Pastor Jim will make eye contact with him.

_Oh, God... _Sam tries to swallow around the lump that's suddenly developed in his throat. _What's going to happen to Dean?_

As he thinks this, Sam looks at his older brother. He can see the guy coming to the same realisation and he sees his own fear reflected his brother's frightened, green eyes. This time, even the pathetic smile he managed last time seems like a monumental effort and Sam gives up before he's even really tried.

As if someone smiling at him would make Dean feel any better anyway…

Beside Sam, Missouri is swirling her finger through the mixture of crystalline powder and John's blood, resulting in a cloudy, pink puddle of liquid on the plate. It's so silent in the cold, barren room that Sam can hear the edges of the shallow pool lapping against the porcelain, the _drip, drip, drip_ of his father's blood rippling on the surface, his own louder-than-normal breathing…

Geez, even some Latin mumbo-jumbo would be better than this sweltering silence.

"Hand me the contract, Sam."

_Thank. God. _Sam almost bounces in his eagerness to respond.

Sam's eyes scan over the battered piece of paper as he hands it to his father and even the glimpse of the words written there is enough to make him nauseous.

_Ownership, property…bait. _Sam wills his father to rip the sickening thing up. To rip it up and throw the pieces in the face of Edwin's corpse…and then to shoot Edwin's corpse a few times for the hell of it…and then leave his corpse out in the open as a warning to anyone else that thinks they can treat Sam's brother like a piece of fucking property.

"Focus, Sam."

Sam looks up to see his father staring at him, his brown eyes glinting with warning.

Sam nods in response but he can't help but wonder _what _he's supposed to be focusing on.

"That should do it," Jim comments, and John pulls his hand away from the saucer, wiping away an errant trickle of blood with his thumb.

Sam can't help but glance briefly at his brother again. He feels oddly guilty doing it knowing how scary it must be for Dean to look back and see four pairs of eyes staring at him. Sam's never seen his brother look so alone before and it breaks his heart.

Sam wants to protest the fact that Dean's practically being ignored but he knows that if neither John, Jim or Missouri has suggested it, then there must be a pretty good reason why Dean's being kept in the dark.

"Hold this."

Dad's intensity is scaring him, Sam realises as he holds the saucer of blood in both hands without questioning why.

Jim wordlessly places two cinderblocks on the towel and Sam moves forward, still having a hard time believing that the setup can actually classify as an altar. The young hunter instinctively balances the plate on top of the blocks, careful not to spill any of the pink liquid.

All he's doing is balancing a plate on two bricks, but something about being hidden underground in a silent, torchlit cellar and the focused, solemn atmosphere tinged with magic, makes the action seem ritualistic and archaic.

Between the two blocks, the freshly lit candle is flicking and licking at the bottom of the plate. Sam watches, almost transfixed as the dancing flame slowly singes the cold porcelain.

A mumbled snatch of Latin from Jim and a pinch of a powder Sam doesn't recognise and the candle flame flares, burning an unnatural crimson colour. In seconds, the pink liquid is bubbling and hissing violently on the saucer as the candle burns with a flame far bigger than a tiny tea light should be able to produce.

As the little room is bathed in an eerie red glow, Sam can see his brother's face all the more clearly. He can see a pair of green eyes staring in muted fear at the flame, see the beads of sweat on the elder man's brow that are glinting in the firelight.

_It's alright_, Sam promises silently. _I won't let anything happen to you_.

But how can he even think that when he's actually _participating _in this ritual? Anything that happens to Dean is his fault, too. Sam realises how his Dad must have felt as Dean screamed in pain while their father tied his ribs and cleaned his wounds. For the first time in several hours, Sam feels a snatch of empathy for the man.

_Being cruel to be kind is no fun at all._

And then Sam blinks as his brother's face becomes harder to see and he becomes aware of a thin veil of pink mist filling the basement. Judging by the unchanging expressions of Dad and the others, this is perfectly normal.

_Normal my ass_, Sam thinks as the mist begins to part and shift. It's hard to follow with his eyes, but he can see most of it is filtering towards Dean and Robby. Worryingly, a little of it seems to be flowing towards _him, _too. Towards his…pocket?

Sam instinctively searches with his hand and then freezes as his fingertips brush something cold and hard.

_Oh, God, is this part of the ritual?!_

And then, as the young hunter feels a series of tiny chain links brushing against his thumb, he realises what he's touching – the amulet he forgot to give Dean. As he tugs on the chain and withdraws the amulet from his pocket, Sam frowns in confusion. The golden pendant is covered in a furry red substance and when the young hunter touches it, his thumb comes away sticky and trailing a long, string of the stuff.

Dean looks to Dad, Jim and Missouri for an explanation and then frowns as he realises they're all staring worriedly at him. And then Sam follows their gaze, and he's worried, too.

One glance at his brother informs Sam better than any explanation from his father could have – the real ritual is only just beginning.

* * *

This star thing he's sitting in the middle of can only be about seven feet across at most, but to Dean, it feels like he's miles away from the others. Not that this is a bad thing - at least he can't get hit from this distance. On the other hand, judging by that spell thing they've got going on over there, getting beaten might be the least of his worries.

One thing he's _not_ happy about being seven feet away from is the exit. He's not chained, so he could make a run for it, but he wouldn't be able to dodge around four people and, even with two arms, he couldn't take them all on.

On top of that, he couldn't abandon Robby down here to be at the mercy of John and the others.

_I ain't leaving you again_, he promises as he glances over at his unconscious friend before looking sharply back to the other occupants in the room as he hears the quiet whoosh of a flame igniting.

_Fire! _Dean's instincts remind him unhelpfully, drowning out the sound of his heart thumping in his chest for a few seconds.

_Why does it have to be fire? _the young man despairs, trying to stop his thoughts from tipping over into hysteria and to stop the tears he wants to shed from falling.

Dean closes his eyes briefly, partly to try and calm himself down and partly just to block out the sight of the flames, but the fire in his mind's eye burns even brighter and is impossible to hide from.

_**A huge house aflame…a baby in his arms….a pair of glinting yellow eyes**_**.**

Dean shudders at the memories.

_**A smaller flame now; a yellow speck of fire flickering at the end of a cigarette lighter. Sixteen years old, he watches the flame, the gentle, dancing movements lulling him into a soft daze.**_

"_**Touch it."**_

_**He startles at the order, staring up at his owner with uncomprehending eyes.**_

"_**Put your hand on the flame," Edwin explains bluntly.**_

_**The man's voice is cold, ruthless, and yet the very idea is so alien to Dean's instincts that he hesitates, his outstretched palm hovering comfortable inches away from the heat.**_

_**He has to jerk the appendage away as Edwin moves the lighter sharply, grabbing Dean by the collar with his free hand as he does. **_

"_**You'll obey my orders like a good little piece of bait and you'll put your hand in the fire or I'll put this flame right in those pretty green eyes of yours," the hunter hisses.**_

_**Dean squeezes his eyes shut automatically. He's shaking so badly his teeth are chattering. **_

"_**You don't need two eyes when all you are is monster chow…" **_

_**He can feel the heat just past his right eyelid growing stronger and stronger until he can smell his eyelashes singing and he jerks away.**_

"_**I'll do it!" he sobs fearfully, "I'll do it, I'll do it, I'll do it, I'll do it…"**_

_**Dean can still feel his cheeks flushing from the heat as Edwin moves the lighter away.**_

"_**You'll what?" Edwin asks harshly.**_

"_**I-I'll...I'll touch the fire, Sir," Dean stammers, breathing rapidly though his nose as he bites on his lip.**_

"_**You'll what?" Edwin repeats; colder, harsher.**_

"_**I-I'll obey," Dean gulps, a fresh trickle of tears running down his face as he hears his own defeat. "I'll obey…Sir."**_

When Dean cracks his eyes open, the room is flooded with a thin veil of red mist that takes a minute or so to dissipate.

It's hard to focus on what's going on when he still has the memory of Edwin holding his wrist in his vice-like grip, of his own scream of pain, his flesh charring and a constant inescapable litany whispered into his ear.

"_If you'd've obeyed me the first time, your skin wouldn't still be alight right now. You'll obey me, you don't have a choice – you don't __**need **__a choice - you're bait, that's it, nothing more. You don't __**deserve **__a choice. Choice is for people like me…"_

And then his own pleas had drowned out everything else and Edwin had finally released him.

Dean runs his hand over the small oval of scar tissue on his palm, just one scar among many, and consoles himself with the fact that at least John didn't see this one.

"Alright, Dean, honey, just relax."

Dean quickly curls the hand he was just staring at into a fist as he sees John, Jim and Missouri approaching him.

_Relax?_ Dean's never been more on edge in his whole life.

* * *

John watches as Dean tenses up. The kid looks completely terrified and John can't blame him. Infinitely more alarming than Dean's expression are the red markings along his forehead where the mist has settled and coagulated. The rough, crimson lines are startling to look at and it takes John a few seconds to recognise the unfamiliar markings: four runes etched in the centre of Dean's forehead, framed by a pair of jagged brackets on either side.

To his left, he can see similar markings etched across Robby's forehead. They're hard to read, cast in the shadow left by the peak of that oh-so-familiar baseball cap, but John can already see that they're far more extensive than the crude marks littering his son's brow. The mist has formed in ornate swirls and lettering running across the blond boy's forehead and down the right side of his face, circling his eye socket and fading away over the bridge of his nose.

John's glad it's just Dean they have to free from this thing. An enchantment that size is way beyond his league.

John's about to ask Sam to translate the runes, since he knows his youngest son is booksmart enough to know how, when he notices the boy staring at something suspended on a golden chain.

"Dad, what is this stuff?" Sam asks as he notices John's eyes on him.

John, however, is too busy staring at the thick aura of mist hovering around Sam (as it is Missouri) to answer. He'd _expected _it to hover around Missouri - she's a psychic, after all - but why is it attracted to his youngest son?

"It's a seeking mist," Jim Murphy explains, filling the void left by John's confused silence. "It settles wherever there's magic."

The pastor's eyes scan over the pendant, which is coated with the sticky residue of the mist. "That must be a pretty powerful charm you've got there," he observes.

"It's for protection," Sam replies, not taking his eyes off of the swinging amulet. "Anyway, it's Dean's," he adds. "I just haven't given it to him yet."

John smiles at this before the mention of Dean reminds him to focus and he turns to look back at his eldest son who, John is proud to see, stares right back.

"Alright, Dean, we're gonna get you free of this," he promises.

The way that his son subconsciously draws back from him and the minute shaking of his head is heartbreaking, and even the normally serene Jim falters.

"John…" he sighs, keeping his voice low and quiet, "maybe we don't need to put him through this."

John frowns at this, silently begging the pastor to shut up, to stop vocalising what John was doing his damned hardest not to even _think_.

"I mean, only you hold the contract over him now and you won't use it. Maybe we could just leave -."

"No, Jim," John replies firmly, drawing on every ounce of parental strength and experience he possesses. "We're doing it. Now."

Missouri moves at this, sitting beside Dean and placing her soft hands on either side of his head.

"Alright, Dean, it's okay, you're gonna be alright, stop shaking…"

John can hear her whispered litany of calm and before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches his left arm out. Missouri removes her left hand from Dean's temple and places it in John's larger one, acting as the conduit between him and Dean.

Jim passes by Sam on the way to the altar and John hears him instruct the boy on what to do next. When the pastor returns, he's carrying the plate that had contained the mixture of blood and crystal powder. Now that the blood has evaporated, there's just a soggy pink pulp, which is starting to crystallize in the centre of the red-tinged plate.

But it has his blood and that's all John needs. With his free hand the hunter reaches into the mixture and, with a cry of "now!", drags his thumb across Dean's forehead with one swift stroke. At the same time, he hears the unearthly fire crackle and hiss as Sam burns the contract.

And then, the easy bit is over and John waits until, right on cue, Dean screams and, over the sound of his eldest son's agony, John wonders if he just lost any chance of earning either of his boys' forgiveness.

_Probably_, he acknowledges, but as long as Dean is healthy, he can live with the boy being mad. After all, isn't that what being a father is all about?


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: Okay, lots and lots of Dean whump in this chapter - more than normal anyway! Lol. I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty

Dean has no idea what John just did to him but, fuck, it **hurts**! What began as a tingling across his brow has quickly blossomed into a burning pain which is rapidly enveloping the whole of his head.

He tenses against the pain, breathing through clenched teeth. Missouri's hand feels like a block of ice against his burning skin and he can feel himself trembling with the shock of it all. He tries to draw away from the sensation, but his body refuses to listen to him and his head hangs limp on his neck.

He can hear his own racing pulse thudding at the base of his skull and the force of its pounding makes him dizzy. And then he can't hear anything at all as his ears pop; his head is literally fucking ringing like Edwin just slammed it into a brick wall.

_Well_, he thinks deliriously through an oxygen-starved mind, _it wouldn't be the first time. _

And then he can't think anything, can't fucking _breathe,_ as his entire body goes rigid. He doesn't even have time to contemplate trying to bite back his scream.

Scream? Howl, more like it. As his brain tries to split itself in two, Dean collapses onto his side, his entire body cramping and spasming as muscles he didn't even know he _had _tense up. And the whole time, that hand is there resting on the side of his splitting head, even as he tries to curl into a foetal position to relieve some of the tension in his seizing muscles.

The new position does nothing to help; his entire body feels like a pressure cooker, the pain moving in waves to his head where it explodes in a dazzling explosion of agony. Dean bites off his scream as he starts to spit up blood.

He can hear muffled voices that he somehow knows must come from people near him, even though they sound so very, very far away. The young man wants to ask them what the hell they're doing to him, w_hy _the hell they're doing this to him. Was he bad? How the hell is he supposed to figure all this out?

_I'll be good! _He screams within his mind, which is fragmented by pain. _I won't screw up again, just please, please, please stop!_

He doesn't give a fuck about his pride now as he shivers on the floor but, as he opens his mouth to beg them to stop, to let them know that they're killing him, that he can't take any more, all that emerges is another choked scream and he tastes copper as blood from his nose trickles onto his lips.

He opens his eyes to try and see what the hell is going on and that's when he realises that they've been clenched shut. All he manages to achieve as he forces them open is an explosion of light in his eye sockets that would have made his head hurt even worse, if that was actually physically possible, which, Dean knows, it sure as hell _isn't_. Coloured rings flare and swirl in his vision and he can feel tears trickle down his face. Somehow, through the layers of unending, relentless agony, Dean manages to notice that they tickle.

And as the young man lies bleeding and crying and convulsing in agony in a stranger's basement, he manages to think the one thought that he could never have imagined crossing his mind:

_Maybe Edwin wasn't so bad after all._

* * *

As John watches his pale son lying unconscious on his bed, he tries to figure out which of them is trembling the most. His youngest son is dabbing at the crusted blood under Dean's nose and at the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth that's already stained red from wiping away the smudged mess of runes. Every now and then a sluggish stream of crimson will start to trickle anew and, as much as Jim tries to convince John that this is normal, the hunter is sick with worry.

John can hear Dean making quiet, whimpering noises in the back of his throat and every one cuts John to the core.

"Dean?"

Sam's cautious voice forces John to focus and he breathes in sharply when he sees Dean sluggishly turn his head away from Sam's voice, the boy's brow creasing and then relaxing again.

_Oh, no, you don't! _John thinks as he marches towards the bed, alarmed to see Dean lapsing into sleep again.

"Dean." John grasps his son's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. "Open your eyes, son," he coaxes gently.

The hunter would have been pleased to see the frown lines creasing Dean's forehead if it was just tiredness causing his son's reluctance to awaken and not head-splitting agony. Well, frown lines are the least worrying of all the markings he's seen on his son's brow today.

Dean mumbles something that John can't make out and the elder man frowns as he notices his son's dry, chapped lips. Wordlessly, he reaches his hand out and Sam instinctively hands him the glass of water.

"Come on, Dean," he keeps his voice just a little louder than normal so that Dean can't drown it out. "Drink some water for me," he continues, giving the kid's shoulder another shake for good measure.

From the looks of things, half of the water John tips to his son's mouth goes into the boy's lungs and the other half ends up down his chin but the resultant coughing fit is enough to persuade Dean to crack his eyes open.

Sam instinctively pulls Dean upright as the older boy tries to double over in the bed, his hands wrapped clumsily round his abdomen. John remembers the feel of Dean's cracked ribs under his fingertips and hates the fact that he has to do this.

_It's for your own good, Dean, _he silently explains to his son, who stares blearily at him through glazed, bloodshot eyes.

Dean doesn't even have the strength to hold himself upright and the sight of the boy slumped against his younger brother might have been sweet if it weren't for the sheer agony on Dean's face and the horrified tears running down Sam's.

Raising his head is clearly an effort for the exhausted young man and John can see him trying to lift it off Sam's shoulder before he finally gives up and mumbles something into his brother's shirt.

Sam instantly pales at whatever it is that Dean's just said and John quickly rounds on his youngest.

"What did he say?" he demands. "Dean, say it again, a little louder for me," he babbles, almost head butting his eldest in an attempt to get close enough to hear him.

Sam silences him, sounding almost numb as he speaks. "I'm sorry."

"What?" John frowns. He pulls back until he can see _both _his sons and he wonders what his youngest is apologising for. He really doesn't have time for Sam's theatrics right now, not when Dean is so sick.

"H-He said he's sorry," Sam explains again, swallowing past a lump in his throat and John almost staggers under the weight of the words.

"Sorry for what?" the hunter chokes out, but Dean has already lapsed back into unconsciousness and John won't be getting any answers anytime soon.

_It doesn't have to be soon_, he thinks despondently as another blood vessel in Dean's nose bursts and a sluggish bead of crimson follows the trail left by so many others before it.

_It doesn't have to be soon, _John confirms again, tracking the trickle with his eyes. _Just please let him heal._

And John prays for his son with all his being, even if he has no idea who he's praying to.

* * *

Dean can't decide if sitting on the bed is a good thing or not. On one hand, it's as comfy as hell and it means he's eye-to-eye with John, which makes him feel only slightly less nervous. On the other hand, he's effectively trapped with his back against the wall and the irritating springiness will be a hindrance if he has to fight.

_You've got a concussion, broken ribs, and a broken hand, but the __**bed **__would be a hindrance? Stop kidding yourself._

Okay, so fighting isn't an option, but he has to do something before John tries to rip his skull in two again with that spell. He knows another round of _that _little game will kill him, and while Dean's never found the idea of dying particularly scary, if he has the choice, he'd rather not die in blistering agony.

No…better to die from a bullet or a knife. Hell, even a beating gone too far would be quick enough since there's no Robby around to heal him.

_Robby!_

Dean finally takes his eyes off of John to search the room for his friend, cursing internally with the realisation that Robby isn't in the room with him.

"Where's Robby?" the young man demands nervously, only his concern for his friend giving him the willpower to speak up. His voice is hoarse from all the screaming so it doesn't sound like a particularly threatening demand, but John answers him anyway.

"He's at Pastor Jim's," the elder man explains and Dean files that piece of information away for a later moment, for when it doesn't take every ounce of energy he has to form a coherent thought.

He's not happy about being away from Robby, of course, but given the choice between John and Jim, Dean would rather his friend was with Jim. At least Jim had tried to talk John out of whatever it was he did that felt like it had effectively split Dean's brain in half.

Fuck, it doesn't make a difference if he's thinking or not, his head just hurts…all the fucking time. It's a constant, unending swell of pain, pressing at the back of his skull, burning behind his eyes, throbbing at his temples…

Dean hisses briefly as a particularly vicious stab of pain runs through him; the intensity of it takes his breath away. The young man doubles up on the bed, digging the heel of his right hand into his forehead.

Out of the corner of his almost-shut eyes, Dean sees John approaching and his state of agony is enough to strip him of his normal inhibitions.

"What the hell did you do to me?!"

His voice emerges as a strangled, choked sob and Dean wills the tears pooling in his eyes not to fall. He's not weak, he won't cry.

_Don't cry, don't cry, don't let him see you cry; suck it up!_

But there's only so much a malnourished, beaten, frightened young man can suck up, and even though Dean would never dare admit it, he's already far beyond his limit.

"I-I'm sorry, Dean," John replies, a look in his eyes that Dean can't quite interpret….disappointment? Yeah, that's probably it, disappointment that his bait is laid up in a bed, taking up valuable space, because it couldn't handle a little pain.

Dean finally unfurls as a fraction of the pain drains away and his headache returns to only borderline unbearable. He's still shuddering as that particular wave of suffering drains away, the rest of his energy and bravado draining with it.

Slumped against the rough, brick wall, Dean stares with wide eyes at his owner. His voice is a timid, little whimper.

"W-were you tryin' to kill me?"

He pauses to stare at the thick blanket covering his knees and, after a couple more seconds, adds "Sir" just to be safe.

"No, Dean!" John's voice sounds anguished and Dean flinches away as the man approaches.

"Dean, I'd _never_ try to kill you," the hunter explains, shaking his head vehemently.

The man sighs wordlessly as he sits on the edge of the bed. His position is just close enough for Dean to feel uncomfortable.

"I didn't want to put you through that ritual. I didn't want to put you through..." the older man gestures to Dean, "…_this_," he finishes, anguish lacing his voice.

John is trying to look into Dean's eyes and the close scrutiny makes Dean want to crawl under the covers and hide; he _hates _people staring at him, always looking for some flaw or weakness they can use as an excuse to hit him. He settles for just _looking _at the covers, which makes it easier to pretend that John isn't really staring at him at all.

"I wish there was a way I could have done it without hurting you, son, but it's a vicious, ugly spell and it has a vicious, ugly cure."

Dean bites nervously on his bottom lip, re-opening the split there before speaking.

"Why don't you just admit you like hurting me?" Dean sounds about as confused and exasperated as John feels. "Edwin used to boast about it all the time."

"Dammit, Dean, Edwin was a bastard!" John exclaims, leaping off the bed in his fury.

Dean can feel the rough brick scraping his scarred back as he presses himself against it.

"He was a bastard, Dean, a brutal, ugly, malicious bastard. When are you going to get that?"

Dean just shakes his head at that. Every time he'd even _suggested _something like that he'd been beaten for it, so he knows it must be wrong. Just because Dean _thinks _he was a bastard doesn't mean he _was_ one - after all, Dean's a piece of bait who doesn't know shit and Edwin was the master of the whole training camp; it's pretty obvious which of them is more likely to be wrong.

"'least he was honest," Dean answers quietly, tensing again against another cramping seizure in his head. "At least he told me what he was punishing me for."

Dean glances to the side and then upward to look into John's eyes.

"I can be better, Sir," he informs John with an earnest stare. "I can do better. I can learn. I-I'm trying real hard to be good. I can do better if you tell me what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Dean!" John replies, sounding frustrated.

Dean tenses at the undertone of anger in the older man's voice, his hands curling into fists in the coarse blanket.

"I'm your father, you-."

"Edwin was right!" Dean cuts him off, wincing as the loudness of his own voice worsens his…his what? 'Headache' doesn't even begin to describe the level of agony he's feeling. "Maybe Edwin was right and maybe you ain't lying."

"What?" John frowns at this and Dean's too furious to notice the trickle of blood leaking from his nose that John's staring at. He's so used to the taste of blood that he barely even registers the acrid copper tang as he licks his lips before speaking again.

"You are my father and you **did **sell me to him, didn't you?!" Dean demands, throwing the blanket off in an attempt to show some of his anger.

"N-."

"You said I didn't do anything wrong and you still did…did that _thing _to me!" Dean sobs, tears beginning to mingle with the blood trickling down his face and chin.

"He was right! You _do_ hate me, and you _do_ think I'm a screw up and...and you hurt me even though I was good…and you just wanna get rid of me again!"

Dean's words are fuelled not by conscious thought, but by a dangerous mixture of pain, fear and desperation that leaves him exhausted and terrified.

"Dean, what we did, in Jim's basement-" John breaks off as Dean moans quietly, clutching his head in his hands for a few seconds before he's lucid enough to listen again.

"That ritual was to get rid of the binding contract Edwin put on you," the hunter finishes.

Dean scowls, shaking his head a little to try and clear it. That only makes the pain worse and it pisses him off because he has to focus on what John's saying and it's fucking hard to do that through a head so crammed with pain there's no room for concentration.

"You're free of that spell, Dean, no one has that kind of power over you anymore," John smiles hesitantly and Dean wants to wipe the stupid look off the old bastard's face.

"Am I supposed to be grateful?" he jeers, smirking when John's face falls.

Hell, even smirking hurts. And because having someone upset with him is a lot easier to deal with than having someone not upset with him, since Dean never understands what "calm" people want, the young man continues his terrified bravado.

"Yeah, thanks, _Sir_," he sneers sarcastically, "Next time can you make it hurt even more? Can you make me bleed out my _ears, _too? Oh, and could you make it even longer - how about a brain haemorrhage? That sure would be real nice of you."

"Dean…"

Dean watches as the little vein across John's forehead begins to protrude from the skin and he knows the man is angry.

"Dean, I'm sorry it hurt you, and I'm sorry we didn't warn you."

Dean notes with dismay how John breathes deeply to calm himself down as he speaks.

"But," John's eyes lock with his, "I'm not going to apologise for doing it, Dean. That ritual is dangerous and the longer it's binded to your mind, the worse it gets. I did what I had to, as your father."

"Is-."

Dean's sentence is cut off as he gasps in pain, his hands flying to his head. The heels of his palms dig into his temples so hard there'll be bruises and his exclamation of pain is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

He doesn't realise he's toppled onto his side until he feels John propping him upright. All he can do isblink at the older man. His fathers strong, steady grip just makes Dean even more aware of how badly he's shuddering.

God, why is he such a baby? Why can't he be tough like John and Edwin?

"Is this supposed to be better?" he chokes out tearfully as he tries and fails to support his own weight.

"It'll pass," John promises, his own voice catching in his throat, "It'll pass."

And despite the fact Dean knows that John Winchester can't be trusted and that John Winchester's promises aren't worth shit, he clings to that repeated litany and stores it away in the part of his mind not wracked by agony.

And then there's nothing to do but lie and endure, which he does, clinging stubbornly onto consciousness because John is still touching him and no _way_ is he falling asleep with the man _this _close to him.

And then a sharp sting in his hip takes even the option of endurance away and he slumps reluctantly into sleep, accompanied by John's gruff, gentle voice promising him that things will be better when he wakes.

* * *

**AN: Okay, so I'm on a karate resedential all next week with no internet so this will be the last chapter for a week or so. I hope you enjoyed it!**


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Whee, I'm back, I hope you're all okay. Some disturbing and potentially upsetting imagery in this chapter folks, if you have any worries message me and I'll let you know what it is. I really don't want anyone upsetting themselves, more than they should be anyway! Lol. Everyone else, enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter Twenty One

Sam stares at the empty syringe in his hand and then looks beyond it, watching as his father pulls the covers over Dean's limp, unresisting form.

"We don't have many of these left," Sam comments, tossing the needle onto the makeshift bedside table, which is simply a plank of wood balanced on some bricks that were leftover from when Dad built the house.

"Your brother needs to sleep." John shrugs as he replies, as though it's a perfectly valid reason for using one of their most valuable resources.

The events of the last few hours remain unmentioned, lingering in the atmosphere about as successfully as an elephant 'lingers' in a corner: huge, obvious and impossible to ignore.

"We all need to sleep." Sam holds out the admission like a peace offering, sitting down on the side of the bed and hoping his father will do the same.

The man does, looking first to Dean and then to Sam before sinking down with a quiet groan on the bed. The only barrier between them now is comprised of Dean's legs. Oh, and the usual Winchester stubbornness.

"It sounded like you two were arguing," Sam comments when he realises his father isn't going to speak first.

"…Yeah."

Dad sounds exhausted. Well, sitting for hours while your son screams through pain so intense it makes him throw up will do that, Sam figures.

"He thinks we - he thinks I was trying to kill him."

"God…Dad…"

It's hard for Sam to see his father this vulnerable. Dad has always been the gruff disciplinarian, the strong, aggressive hunter, the reliable protector and once, a guilty, tearful father, but never this tired, defeated, old man that Sam sees now.

"Well, we'll just have to show him otherwise, won't we?" Sam encourages brightly, but the smile fades from his lips when he looks at his brother, that now-familiar face reminding him that he has no reason to be cheerful.

"I'm no good at this, Sammy."

Dad's voice is so weary it makes Sam feel tired just listening to it.

"Sure you are, Dad," the young man reassures.

"That's not what you said last night," John replies bluntly and Sam sighs as he remembers how he had taken Dean away from their father. How he had stalked past him into their home and then walked out with Robby in his arms, giving the man who had raised him no more than a glare as he passed.

The image of John Winchester standing alone in the storm, watching his sons walk away from him suddenly seems less like a victory and more like a monumental screw up to Sam. How must Dad have felt, losing Dean _again_?

Sam meets his father's eyes and squares his jaw before answering the almost-accusation.

"So you're the only person who can say things they don't mean when they're mad?"

John actually grins at this and Sam can see the older man relax a little when the self-righteous tirade he was expecting doesn't arrive.

"…Fine," the reply sounds as reluctant as replies come, but there's a smile tugging at John Winchester's lips for the first time in awhile.

"So, after…" Sam scratches the back of his head even though it doesn't itch, just to keep his hands occupied. "You went to see Missouri?"

"Yeah," John nods.

"And?" Sam prompts.

"And…she busted my balls," John admits with a chuckle and a shrug.

Sam laughs as he imagines the scene.

"Then Jim called on us, said he wanted to break Dean's binding contract, so, I got some stuff together and…that was that," John finishes with a sigh before running a hand through his hair. Sam can't help but notice that there's no mention of Jim's promise of the healer for Robby. Is his Dad holding back on him? Or is the man just too upset and exhausted to remember everything?

Five days ago, Sam would have thought his father would never have kept a secret from him. Now he knows better, and whilst he hates to be suspicious of his own dad, he knows he can't have blind faith in the man. Not anymore.

"Sam, I'm sorry I let you and your brother down like that. I was… what I saw, it just…it took me by surprise and I couldn't deal with it all. I'm-."

"What do you mean 'what you saw'?" Sam asks curiously, intrigued by what could have caused the dramatic shift in his father's personality the night they met Gordon Walker.

"Dean's friend 'Robby'," John begins. "You know that baseball cap he was wearing?"

Sam nods, trying to figure out where this is going. The only thing he remembers about Robby's hat is how badly it needed cleaning.

"That hat - it's the same hat that belonged to Bobby Singer."

"Bobby Singer?"

Sam knows the name well; he can't even begin to count the number of times he's heard his Dad say that 'Bobby was always much better at this shit'.

And there are other memories, too; of a rough voice calling his name and picking him up, a prickly beard against his tender skin. Of his father stomping into the house and sinking down at the table while four-year-old Sam sits nervously in the corner, not daring to point out that he's hungry.

Of Pastor Jim taking him away and explaining why Daddy was upset, that Uncle Bobby had an accident on a hunt and he wasn't coming back. Of a four year old boy finally realising the brutality of the world he lived in.

"But Bobby's dead…" Sam says quietly, his thoughts too many and too confusing to be contained silently in his head.

"I know, Sam!" John frowns and Sam cringes a little.

"Sorry, D-." Sam bites off his sentence as he realises his father is still talking.

"And so is his son."

"His son?" Sam questions automatically. He can already feel the inevitable questions of 'when' and 'why' and 'where' bubbling in his chest and he bites down on his lip to stop from blurting everything out at once and overwhelming his father.

"Bobby had a son, same age as you, give or take a few months." Sam stares at his Dad, the man's brown eyes are focused on a spot on the wall.

"H…how did he die?" Sam asks quietly when his father remains silent.

"Fire," John answers plainly.

"Like-."

"Yeah, like what _could _have happened to you, Sam. What I _thought _happened to Dean."

Sam jumps to his feet in his excitement. Robby must be Bobby's son and he's been alive this whole time, too, just like Dean! "Well, then maybe he-."

"We found the body."

John's emotionless words bring Sam crashing down to Earth and back to the bed, his enthusiasm gone in an instant.

"A-are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Sam!" Now John's the one standing up. "I watched him carry that baby's corpse around with him for hours, Sam! I was carrying you through the ruined streets of Lawrence and he was carrying his dead baby boy right next to me, and the whole time I was just praying I wouldn't end up carrying _Dean's _corpse the same way. How the fuck could I be unsure about that?!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Sam apologises; the very image makes him shudder.

"I'll never forget it…" John's eyes are vacant now, though he moves one hand, seemingly subconsciously, until it's resting on Dean's blanket-covered leg.

Sam can only imagine what his father has been through. What _Bobby _had been through.

"Wh-what about Bobby's wife?" If Bobby had a son, then he must have had a partner, right? From his hazy memories of the man, Sam doesn't think Bobby Singer was the type of man to have a one night stand.

John goes pale at this and Sam immediately knows the answer.

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it…_His brain pleads with him, but his mouth takes no notice.

"Like what happened to Mom?"

John simply leaves the room and Sam knows without a doubt that the answer is yes.

* * *

It's the third time Dean's woken up during Sam's vigil and each time, the first words out of Dean's mouth have been the same.

"Where's John?"

Just like Sam's replies have been, too: "He's not here."

This time, instead of the silence that usually accompanies his bland explanation, Sam gets a reply.

"Good."

It's a quiet, fearful reply, but a response nonetheless, and Sam tries not to grin. After all, the fact that Dean is scared shitless of their father really isn't something to smile about.

"He…" Sam fumbles for words, feeling unusually inadequate under Dean's silent scrutiny. The young hunter tries to imagine himself in his brother's shoes and it's clear that Dean's perception of their father as just another evil bastard out to hurt him isn't going to change just because of one stammered promise from his brother.

Sam sighs in reluctant acceptance of his brother's (admittedly understandable) suspicion and lifts his gaze up from the two blanket-covered lumps that are Dean's boots - Sam isn't going to suggest taking those off again after Dean's reaction the last time he brought it up - until he's staring into Dean's expectant eyes.

_Expectant? _Sam realises he's left his sentence hanging and the ever-alert Dean is still waiting for him to finish.

"He's not so bad," the young hunter finishes weakly. The statement seems ridiculously anti-climactic in the wake of all that build up and Sam clears his throat before trying again.

"He really didn't want to hurt you, Dean," he promises, staring into Dean's eyes and _willing _his brother to believe him.

Dean snorts disbelievingly, staring back at Sam through eyes that glitter with a mixture of wariness and pity. Sam's beginning to realise that the sense of awe he feels for his older brother definitely isn't reciprocated.

_Yet_, an optimistic voice in the back of his head chirps up and Sam can almost imagine his father's weary tone in his mind:

_One step at a time, Sam._

"He loves you," Sam insists, still smarting from Dean's non-verbal dismissal of his assurances.

"Yeah," Dean sneers, rubbing the back of his head pointedly. "It feels like it."

"He told you why," Sam replies quietly, trying not to let any of the exasperation he's feeling seep into his voice. It isn't _Dean's _fault that he can't trust anyone. And, hell, if **Sam **had been through what Dean experienced just two days ago, he'd be a heck of a lot bitchier than Dean is being right now.

Since the pain quieted down to levels that aren't severe enough to make him scream, Dean has been quietly accepting of it, shrugging it off like he doesn't care and boasting,with a voice that had only wavered a little, about how Edwin had hurt him a hundred times worse in the past.

"I don't believe him," Dean announces, his voice conspiratorially quiet.

Sam's once again fighting to hide his emotions, but this time it's surprise – Dean rarely ever speaks unless what's been said to him necessitates a reply. When Sam quizzed him on his lack of conversation during a particularly (he's ashamed to say) boring bedside vigil, Dean had responded with a sneer and an almost uncomprehending look: "Why the hell would I wanna talk to you?"

John's almost challenging reply of "Edwin didn't appreciate small talk, huh, Dean?" had wiped the smirk right off Dean's face and replaced it with a mix of fear and resentment that Sam can still picture.

Dean's sardonic reply, "Like I'm gonna give you another reason to rip my brain in half," had emerged barely above a whisper and that was when Sam had learned how much Dean hated someone being able to figure out the _real _reason behind his behaviour, when he'd been forced to remember how terrified of everything his big brother really is.

Looking now at Dean's narrowed eyes and tense shoulders, it's easy to fall into the illusion Dean's trying to create – a tough, cocky, street-kid who doesn't give a shit about anything. It's only the cracks in the façade - the odd flinch here, a quiet whimper there, tears trickling down blood-streaked cheeks when he thinks no-one's looking - that give Sam a chance to see the terrified young man hiding within, suffocated by his memories of being beaten and starved, among the other horrors that Sam knows must be haunting his brother.

Faced with all that, Sam can't even muster the energy to be hopeful anymore.

"Yeah…" It's more of a sigh than a word. "I know you don't."

There's a brief silence in the room, and even with his head bowed, Sam can feel Dean staring at him. Now he's beginning to understand his father's reluctance to sit at Dean's bedside; aside from Dean's blatant hatred of the man who he now believes is just waiting for another chance to kill him, the weight of the young man's suspicion is suffocating. Sam now realises that maybe his Dad wasn't being as pathetic as Sam thought he was when he kept asking Sam to switch with him for a breather.

And just as the tension is getting unbearable and Sam can feel his legs twitching with his desire to leave the room, he's hit by an idea that has him leaping to his feet, not in retreat, but in excitement.

_Well_, he thinks proudly, _I always do work well under pressure._

"What if he proved it to you?"

His shift in tone from completely defeated to totally re-energised has Dean puzzled and Sam almost laughs at the expression on his brother's face.

"Huh?"

"To activate that…that…" Sam gestures vaguely to his head as his brain lags way behind his mouth. "That…_thing_," he finally settles on. "He just had to say an incantation, right?"

Dean nods slowly, warily, and Sam grins even wider, not caring that his brother now seems to regard him as being completely insane.

"So, he can come here and say it and when it doesn't-."

"No!"

Dean's voice is so startlingly loud that it shatters Sam's excitement in an instant.

"Dean…"

"No, please, no!" Dean's eyes are wide and fearful, his face worryingly pale, and Sam rapidly backpedals through the conversation to figure out what he's said that was wrong.

"Please don't let him do that to me again."

Dean's pleas are explanation enough.

"Please, Sam…I'm sorry I…I'm sorry for…for whatever I did. I'll believe you, I promise I will, just please don't ask him to do that to me again. Please."

Dean's desperate, frightened tone has Sam's heart sinking into his stomach as he remembers Dean's frantic begging the night they met Gordon Walker and he realises how completely terrified his brother must be to use that tone once again.

"He'll kill me, Sam, Sir. He'll really kill me next time and I…"

Sam raises his eyebrows at Dean's unfinished sentence and Dean's seemingly so afraid that even _that_pathetic encouragement is enough to persuade him to finish.

"I really wanted to make sure Robby was okay before I - before John finished me off."

And at the mention of Robby, Dean's eyes seem to harden, the desperation hidden behind a veil of determination.

"If he tries again, I'll knock him out."

Dean's tone sounds deadly and it's enough to convince Sam that his brother _could _knock John out if he wanted to, broken hand or not.

And then, once again, Dean's mood changes and Sam's struggling to keep up with his screwed-up big brother's change of pace.

"Oh no, I - I didn't mean it!" Dean blurts.

The panic he was doing so well at suppressing is bubbling to the surface with such force that Sam can see it flash across his brother's features.

"I - I didn't mean it, Sir, please don't chain me, I'm sorry."

Every time Dean calls him 'Sir', it's like a punch in Sam's gut. The young hunter is so drained that he can't even get his head around what his brother is saying, let alone figure out how to reply.

"We…we don't have any chains," Sam responds flatly, his brain seemingly working on autopilot.

Dean falters at this and Sam uses the brief moment of quiet to draw a relaxing, deep breath of air before steeling himself for the next onslaught of Dean's emotions.

_What's it gonna be this time? Anger? Fear? Resentment?_

And, to Sam's surprise, he finds his brother is almost…smiling?

"Y-you ain't very good at this ownership stuff, are you?"

Dean's voice is timid, his muscles coiled and ready to escape what he perceives as Sam's inevitable backlash.

Sam feels more like shouting with joy than shouting at Dean. Dean actually almost smiled! Dean made a joke! Dean didn't call him 'Sir'! Dean didn't apologise! In Sam's eyes, it's a breakthrough and he laughs as he responds.

"No, we're not, Dean," he smiles. "I'm sorry."

_C'mon, Dean,_ he pleads, _stay with me here, don't get spooked._

It feels like he's walking a tightrope where even so much as a wrong look could send him hurtling back into Dean's usual world of mistrust and fear.

"'S ok," Dean's voice is getting quieter as his nervousness increases and Sam has to strain to hear it. "I kinda…"

At the rate Dean's fiddling with the blanket, it's gonna be threadbare in no time, Sam thinks. His brother's eyes are looking everywhere but at Sam and the guy is nipping his lip with his bottom teeth.

It's not how Dean usually manifests his nervousness - like by being a complete jerk in the hope that he can cover it up - and it isn't until Dean speaks again that Sam realises why; his brother is in completely unknown territory now. Dean's probably never had an actual conversation with one of his 'owners' before.

Now instead of Dean's normal coping mechanism of lashing out at anyone and anything, Sam can see him physically trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, hunching his shoulders, drawing his knees to his chest (Sam was expecting that to happen sooner or later) and even averting his eyes as though _that's _going to do anything.

"Kinda what, Dean?" Sam encourages gently, still all too aware of the thinness of the ice he's treading on.

"Kinda…I -." Dean looks up pleadingly at Sam as though he's hoping his younger brother will be able to figure out what he means soon. Well, Sam's gonna need a little more to go on than two words.

"What he did to me…him and the others…" Dean looks away now, his gaze flitting from one corner of the room to the other before finally settling in his lap, tracking the movement of his fingers that are still toying with the blanket.

"What…did you…did you…help him?"

It's clear to Sam that it's taken a monumental effort for Dean to force out his question. Even now, Dean's breathing is faster than normal, there's a sweat across his brow and Sam can imagine that Dean's heart is probably racing.

"I maybe…thought that, maybe…you said you didn't…you weren't gonna hurt me and so I -.

Sam watches Dean swallow a few times, as though his mouth is dry. It probably is.

"I thought maybe you didn't take part…"

Dean actually visibly flinches at this, as though he's expecting some vicious, retaliation. Well, there's sure as hell not gonna be any vicious retaliation from Sam, no kind of retaliation at all, really, unless he can actually figure out something to say.

First of all, he has to get his head around the fact that Dean has actually had a conversation that's lasted more than a couple of minutes, something worthy of consideration by itself. And then there's what Dean's actually _said_- Dean has actually shown an inkling of trust; if the question had been somewhat different, Sam probably would have whooped for joy…there might even have been dancing.

But that's the kicker; Dean's trust that Sam has worked _so_hard this past week to build up is completely misplaced. Sam _did_take part in that ritual – he moved the saucer and he burned the contract. And, sure, he didn't _know_it was gonna cause Dean such pain, (Sam's not sure he would have had the stomach to go through with it if he'd known he was going to have to lie awake at night listening to Dean screaming in pain while Dad tried anything and everything to stop his suffering) but he still did it, didn't he? He's as guilty as his father and Missouri and Jim…isn't he?

And at the same time, can Sam really risk shattering Dean's fragile trust with that admission? This could be his one and only chance at having any sort of relationship with Dean and it isn't really worth missing this opportunity over something Dean would never find out, anyway, right?

Is Sam selfish enough to put his own longing for redemption in Dean's eyes before his duty to be honest to his brother? The words are already forming on Sam's lips before he even figures out the answer.

"That's right, Dean," he lies with a dazzling smile. "I had nothing to do with it."


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: Sorry if it's a bit late guys, I'm having a tough and miserable time at work so my writing is struggling a bit. As a warning, there's some memories of child abuse in this chapter.**

Chapter Twenty Two

He can't see. That's the first thing that pops into his brain once he realises he's awake.

_I can't see_… The boy feels his heart start to pound as his sluggish brain finally begins to understand the implications of this. He feels his hands fumbling towards his eyes although he can't remember telling them to move and his fingers skim against fabric before his wrists are caught in a firm grip that he's too weak to break.

Muffled voices are saying…something, but they're so far away and he's too afraid to concentrate anyway because he can't see!

Terrified, he lashes out with his foot and his heart pounds harder when he meets only air. He missed and now there's someone pinning his legs down, too. Now he's screwed; he's trapped and immobilised and he still can't see. Why can't he see?

_Dean. _It's the only thought that manages to suppress his panic and then he can't even manage to think _that _as he slowly loses his grip on consciousness, not knowing if he'll ever see the light again.

* * *

"Okay, clench for me."

Dean hates how gentle John's voice sounds as he orders him to move his sore hand again. How can he seem so calm when there's such a monster lurking underneath all those calm touches and quiet words? Edwin was a vicious motherfucker, sure, but at least he was a motherfucker _all_ of the time, unlike John who's half motherfucker, half…what? Father? Is this what a father is like?

Dean tries to think back to the time before Edwin, the time when he had a father. He hadn't been lying to Sam when he said he didn't remember before; a lot of his memories are all jumbled and he's never quite sure what's real. He has a picture in his head of a big, bulky form in the doorway and he can feel his four-year-old self running towards him, like he actually _wanted _physical contact from this man.

But he can remember this same man yelling at him and while he can't remember the voice, he knows the words: _Dean, you should be in bed - now you've woken your brother!_

And then he remembers his father shoving him towards Edwin and walking away faster than Dean could follow.

And how can he be sure John even is his father, anyway? Is there a way of proving something like that? And does it make a difference even if he is?After all, this guy sold him to Edwin for not being good enough - he can _remember _him walking away….can't he?

_Fuck... _What happened to just surviving one day and then surviving the next? When did all this stuff start to _matter_?

It's not the first time he's asked these questions. Dean casts his mind back sixteen years and he's surprised how vividly the memories seem compared to the hazy jumble of fragmented thoughts that form his early childhood.

He remembers the first time he set eyes on Robby Singer. He'd been playing with a baseball that Walker had given him and he'd been terrified when the bars of his cell had slid back. Walker had convinced Edwin it was okay for him to play with it, that it would improve his 'cordynation'…or something. Edwin had said it was okay, so they couldn't take it from him!

He'd quickly stuffed the ball in the pocket of his too-small shorts and then stepped back as another boy had been shoved into the cell. Dean heard the boy gasp as the air was knocked out of him when he landed on his side but the kid didn't cry and seemed to be okay.

Once the guards had gone, Dean had approached him and asked the question he asked all the new people he met.

"Do you know where my Daddy is?"

Because Dean _knew _his Daddy was out there looking for him, with…what was his name? The baby. Dean hated that he couldn't remember the baby's name. But his dad would be looking for him, no matter what Edwin said.

The boy had sat up then and Dean got his first good look at him. He was small, smaller than Dean by a lot, which made Dean happy. His hair was blond and spiky and his eyes were very light blue. Like Dean, he was beat up and some of his bruises almost matched Dean's. In his hand he had a hat that Dean liked the look of - he thought he might have to steal that when he got chance.

"What's a daddy?"

Dean had frowned at that. Everyone had daddies….didn't they?

"It's like the man that looks after you and stuff," he'd explained as the kid pulled himself up to a sitting position and crossed his legs. Dean had remained standing, just close enough so he could kick the kid if he needed to, but the boy's shorter legs couldn't reach him.

And yet, as he thought about his Daddy, or what he could remember, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't be kicking people. But if you didn't fight, people hurt you, right? They took your clothes and your food and made you hurt so much that you cried. But Daddy hadn't…Daddy hadn't hit him or taken food from him….had he?

"Like Edwin?" the new boy answered with a frown on his face and Dean had shaken his head and paused.

"Kinda," he had replied with a shrug, "'Sept they look after you and they don't hurt you or nothing."

"Oh." The kid looked only a little bit less confused at this and it had been a few seconds before he spoke again. "I don't think I have one of those."

Dean finally decided to sit down. The kid's voice was quiet and Dean couldn't hear him too good standing up. Plus, he didn't think he was gonna have to kick the boy any time soon, which was nice.

"Sounds kinda nice though…" The kid had commented shyly and Dean had nodded, biting down his lip so he wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry. Crying was for babies and wimps and Dean wasn't either of those.

It was a few minutes before the silence was broken and Dean had surprised even himself when he finally spoke.

"My name's Dean."

He'd whispered the words, knowing he wasn't supposed to have a name anymore, that he was a bad kid who was only a bit of bait and that he didn't deserve one, but he didn't care. He had to know his name for when his Daddy came to find him. What if his Daddy shouted his name and Dean didn't answer cos he'd forgot what it was?

"What's yours?" he'd prompted and the kid had just shrugged.

"I don't think I got one," he'd finally admitted. "'Brat' maybe? Edwin calls me that sometimes. "'Scrap', too."

"'Scrap'?" Dean had almost giggled at that and it felt weird to him. He hadn't laughed for a long time; he wasn't even really sure it was allowed.

"Cos I'm small," the kid had pouted, "and cos I got left lying around like a piece of scrap when I was a baby. And cos I ain't good at fighting and I always get the scraps of food and -."

"Sounds like a good name for you, then," Dean had smirked, laughing as the kid scowled at him. He'd felt big and strong compared to the young kid.

"Well, Scrap, this is my side o' the cell now," he'd explained, drawing a line through the gap between them. So 'his side' happened to have the bed and the toilet and the food hatch…that was just tough for 'Scrap'.

"'Kay."

Scrap's voice had been just a quiet, disappointed acknowledgement and Dean had felt a little bit guilty for a minute before he shrugged it off. He'd show Edwin he wasn't weak. He was tough and strong and he didn't care about nobody.

"You better not get me into no trouble." He'd glared at Scrap, who'd simply nodded eagerly.

"I can be good," he'd promised and the guilt Dean had just relieved himself of came rushing back.

"You'd better be," he'd muttered, wishing he didn't have to be so nasty, that he could just _maybe_ have _one_ friend, just one, and it would be okay.

Dean tries not to smile as he remembers. He wishes he could go back to that little kid and apologise for all the beatings he'd earned him, wishes he could go back to Robby now and apologise. He'll use Robby's old nickname from before they figured out his real name; he hasn't used that since they took him from Walker.

He'll say, _"Hey, Scrap, I'm -."_

"Dean! Are you listening?"

"Huh?" Dean jolts as he feels someone shaking his shoulder. He shakes his head briefly to clear it of the memories before focusing.

_John…shit_.

"Yes, Sir," he quickly replies.

He can feel himself trembling, see the hand John is tending to shaking as he holds it out and, as hard as he tries to stop being afraid, the memory of that endless agonising pain is too powerful to ignore.

"Sorry, Sir," he adds quickly, doing his very best to look apologetic. What the hell do apologetic people look like, anyway?

_Just hit me and get it over with so I don't have to worry about shit like that, _he thinks bitterly.

"You think you'll be okay if we take the splint off?" John questions and Dean nods.

"I'll fight for you. I'll be a good bait. You don't have to use that spell on me again, I promise."

John sighs at this and Dean wonders what he's done wrong. He's been polite and respectful, hasn't he? All his 'Sirs' have been there…

"Dean…" The hunter raises a hand and Dean flinches away from it, still not relaxing when John simply drags it through his hair. "I couldn't use that spell on you even if I wanted to."

He sounds mad and Dean nods like the good little slave he is, all the while seething at how dumb John must believe him to be if he thinks Dean's going to swallow that one.

"And I'd never put you through that again, Dean, no matter what you did," his father adds.

And that does it. Dean needs to show this guy that he's smarter than that, that he _knows_the man is just waiting for a good enough excuse. Probably waiting for all his buddies to come and help him again, more people who like the sound of him screaming.

"Yeah?" he challenges, his voice cold and dangerous. "Never?"

"Never," John confirms, meeting the challenge.

Dean narrows his eyes. "What if I had a gun to your head?" he hisses threateningly.

John's response is as stoic as ever: "Never."

"What about Jim? What if I snapped his neck? I could do it. I'm strong enough."

John narrows his eyes, but his answer is the same. "Never."

Dean wants to scream at the lying bastard, but he settles for just glaring as he tries one last ditch attempt. His voice is low and vicious, his eyes glittering with menace but his heart aches as he speaks the words.

"What about little Sammy?"

"Dean…"

John's voice is wary now and Dean smirks. _Not so smug now, you lying, old git._

"What if I took the gun you've got hidden under that floorboard over there?" Dean gestures with a nod of his head and is pleased at the look of shock on John's face.

_How do you think I survived this long, you bastard? _he thinks bitterly. _You can't promise you won't hurt me when you know nothing about me._

"What if I took the bullets from the pocket of your jeans, walked out this door…"

"Dean," John tries again, but Dean's started now and he's not sure he could stop even if he wanted to.

"Think Sammy could hear me sneaking up on him? Think he'd know what to do if I pressed a gun against his temple. Think there's any words that would stop me from pulling the trigger?"

The idea makes Dean feel uneasy and he hopes it's not showing on his face. He doesn't get why, but he doesn't like the idea of killing Sam. Sam didn't do that ritual on him, after all, and Sam sat by his bedside, brought him food and water, and helped him to the bathroom. Sam's never hurt him…not once in a whole week. Dean doesn't want to shoot him, not if he's honest and that's so fucking frightening.

"What would you do…Sir?" he continues, hoping his nerves won't show. "Sammy's brains splattered across your stupid house that you're so proud of. You'd like to hurt me then, wouldn't you?"

And then Dean waits. Waits for the agony that's both terrifying and welcoming. John's probably going to kill him now, and whilst he'll never get to give that apology to Robby, at least he'll die knowing he was right. Knowing that people are bastards through and through, and he can take pride in the fact that no fake promises of care and safety ever made him forget that.

And yet, John isn't screaming. He isn't speaking in Latin, his fist isn't lashing out towards Dean's face…the hunter just looks defeated.

He sounds it, too, Dean observes confusedly, and as the hunter stands and walks slowly to the door, only one bitter, exhausted sentence emerges from John Winchester's lips.

"You little bastard, Dean."

And, over the echo of the door slamming, Dean realises that he has no idea how he should be feeling about that.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty Three

_He wasn't right_, Dean insists stubbornly as he's heaves the remaining contents of his stomach onto the muddy earth. _Going outside was -_

The young man breaks off his thoughts as he pulls himself upright and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

_It was a great idea_. Such a great idea that it's taken him the best part of a minute to even form that thought.

So, yeah, the natural light is so bright that every sunbeam feels like a needle in his brain and, yeah, his legs are so fucking useless he's standing over a pool of his own vomit and leaning against the house because he doesn't dare let go of it; John told him not to go outside yet, but Dean's done it anyway so it's all worth it…isn't it?

Yet somehow Dean remembers the victory that comes with disobedience always tasting so much sweeter when he defied Edwin…

But what the _hell_! John just admitted to drugging him for the past three days - what's Dean supposed to do? Sit there and act like he's okay with it?

_Painkillers, my ass… _Dean grumbles to himself, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose with an irritated jerk. He curses as even that small movement threatens to send him off balance.

Since moving really isn't an option right now, Dean just rests his forehead on the wall of the house and groans in his mind with a pain he doesn't dare vocalise. He'd been so sure he'd been getting better - now John's telling him it's all just because of some drugs?

'_We gave you a couple of shots to get you through the worst of it; that's why you've been sleeping so much,' _John had informed him when Dean woke to his brain trying to rip itself into little pieces within his skull.

'_Give it another two or three days and you'll be back to normal, minus one binding contract.'_

Dean would have given anything to wipe the smug look off John's face, but he'd been in too much pain to think of anything suitably irritating to say. And, seriously - Dean threatens to shoot the guy's son and the next day he just comes waltzing back in with fake smiles and fake promises like nothing happened? What more can Dean do to piss him off, to bring out the _real_John Winchester?

Dean groans again and feels the coarse brick scraping his forehead as he bows his head. The sharp sting is a welcome distraction from the pounding ache _inside _his head that he has no way of dealing with and he's half tempted to do it again. And again…and again until he can reach inside his skull and tear out this knot of pain clustering within his mind.

"Fuck," the young man curses quietly; he's fucking losing it.

_Must be the drugs, _he reassures himself. The drugs which definitely were _not_painkillers. Painkillers are one of the most valued commodities in the world; as if anyone would waste them on bait. Dean's not that dumb.

Anyway, he's seen what drugs can do - all those nights spent holding Robby while he screamed and thrashed at something only he could see, all those mornings spent trying to coax a sip of water down his best friend's throat while he trembled from the come-down, all those days hoping and pleading that Robby would live through _this _reaction, _this _bout of shock, _this _withdrawal.

And Dean's felt it himself, too, with the pills Edwin forced down his throat. _'If he dies then we know not to take 'em.'_

The brief snatches of awareness when he wasn't crippled with cramps, the way the walls had morphed and twisted before his eyes until he was crying in frustration because he didn't _understand_, Robby leaning over him, nose trickling blood and crying along with him because he didn't know how to help and he was so scared of being left all alone.

Okay, so maybe John's shots hadn't been _that_ bad, but Dean's still pissed that the guy would do that shit to him. They must have done _something _to him. It would explain all that shit that happened with Sam - _'I thought you wouldn't hurt me'_…what had he been _thinking_? Never mind that Sam _hadn't _taken part in the ritual and that Dean wouldn't have found that out if he hadn't asked; it was still a stupid, pathetic thing to have said.

He'll make up for it later, the young man decides, show Sam he's not some pansy that has feelings like hope and trust. He's smarter than that and he doesn't want Sam thinking otherwise. Hell, the guy probably left the room and went and had a good laugh with John – _'Hey, Dad, you'll never guess what the bait just said…'_

Dean can _imagine_it and for some reason his friggin' chest is suddenly aching and there's a weird queasy feeling in his stomach.

_Probably from the not-painkillers, _Dean assumes, shuddering at the thought. What have they done to him? He's already been sick twice, and according to Edwin's rules, that means two extra days without food.

On top of that, if John's making up crap about painkillers then he's probab –no, _definitely_ making up crap about neutralising his binding contract. The guy's probably just gone and stuck another spell on him, something worse.

Well, he's sure he'll find out when John finds him outside and decides to punish him.

Even as Dean thinks this, he can hear footsteps tapping on the wooden steps and then squelching in the mud. He doesn't open his eyes, doesn't think he could bear it again even if it would make any difference in his punishment. It's enough effort to lift his head up again, let alone do anything else.

Scratch…scratch; the brick grazes his already scraped skin as he forces himself to lift his head up and he hisses in both pain and relief at the burn. He understands pain; pain doesn't make new rules that you don't know how to follow, like owners do. Pain is just pain and it's the only thing in Dean's world that never changes.

The young man leans harder into the wall, pressing for the burn again, wanting to lose himself in the only thing that can give him comfort right now.

There's no John, no Sam, no Robby miles away, no cronies of Edwin's out to steal him back, no binding contract that may or may not be there, no crippling headache…just a stinging, soothing burn that chases away any thought but pain, and Dean's never been so content.

* * *

Sam takes a deep breath as he surveys the scene around him. Naturally, his eyes are immediately drawn to his brother, who's leaning against the wall, bracing himself with trembling arms and resting his head against the bricks.

As he steps closer, Sam can make out blood on Dean's pale face and a puddle of vomit seeping into the muddy ground. It worries him but he takes another slow, controlled breath instead of rushing over to his brother and blurting out all the questions he has. As tough as he knows Dean is, he can tell the events of the last week are catching up with the older man and he knows that Dean just needs someone to be gentle with him today. John Winchester is a strong, loving father, but gentle certainly isn't a trait Sam would label him with.

The young hunter waits where he is for a minute, knowing how much Dean hates people creeping into his personal space, but when his presence seems to go unnoticed, he takes another step forward. He moves louder than necessary and even coughs as he walks, almost _hoping _his brother will startle and attack him or something, anything but this silent inobservance that's so unlike the Dean that Sam's come to know.

He's surprised that his usually hyper-observant brother has let him get this close without noticing him. And, as much as he wants this to be a sign of Dean finally relaxing and letting his guard down a little, he knows the real reason will be something far more worrying.

"Dean?" He ventures tentatively, keeping his voice low and quiet like he remembers Jim doing and trying not to convey any of the worry he's feeling.

His brother has an almost vacant look on his face, yet Sam can see the tension across the elder man's brow; he can't help but wonder if Dad's given Dean another injection or something. He can't imagine what else, apart from maybe exhaustion, would cause this behaviour in his brother.

Whatever the reason, Dean's behaviour is scaring him, and regardless of how much it's going to scare the elder man, Sam has to snap him out of it and get them both inside.

"Dean!" Sam's voice is firm but not loud and, combined with the touch of his hand on the curve of Dean's back, it has the desired effect.

Sam feels Dean's muscles tense as his brother startles and he quickly removes his hand, half-expecting Dean to break it or something.

Dean turns rapidly, tumbling against the wall as his shaking legs fail to support him and Sam automatically grabs his brother's arm to steady him. The young hunter can't be sure whether Dean had that terrified, startled look on his face before Sam had grabbed him or not, but as upsetting as it is to see Dean so afraid, at least it's the Dean that Sam _knows_.

And then, before Sam has the chance to contemplate it further, that look is gone, replaced by an attempt at a scowl that Dean's too exhausted to maintain with any vigour.

"Are you okay?" Sam loosens his grip on Dean's bicep but keeps his hand nearby, just in case. He doesn't miss the way Dean keeps glancing to the appendage, flinching minutely every time the hand so much as twitches.

"I'm great," Dean replies stubbornly. Sam can see the elder man squaring his jaw, _daring _him to say otherwise.

"I was worried," Sam continues, ignoring his brother's blatant lie. "You seemed kinda out of it for a bit there."

He tries to keep his voice light and humorous, but his haste to remove any and all traces of accusation from his tone just end up making him sound like a nervous wreck. The young man is sure the forced grin plastered across his face does nothing to dispel that impression either.

"I…" Dean's eyes seem distant for a minute as he pauses in thought. In the brief lull, Sam can see fresh scrapes across his brother's forehead and reminds himself to clean them later…if Dean will let him.

"I was…"

Sam leans in closer as Dean bites down on his lip nervously. He's seen his brother look like this before, usually when he's about to admit something that he interprets as a weakness and, as usual, Sam is all ears.

And then his brother shakes his head angrily, scowling at Sam and jerking away from Sam's hand.

"I said I'm fine!" he glares and Sam actually _feels _himself deflate as he sighs in disappointment. Yep, this is the Dean he knows alright…

"Good," he smiles, once again not acknowledging Dean's change of pace; he has bigger things to deal with now, like how to get Dean in the house without it turning into a battle of wills that Dean's too exhausted to win and too stubborn to lose.

"It's pretty nice out here today," he comments conversationally, not missing the frown Dean gives him.

"Cut the bull -."

Sam doesn't miss Dean's mumbling and his raised eyebrows must show it because Dean immediately pales and then nods eagerly.

"Y-yeah, it's real nice, Sir."

"Sam," Sam corrects, and for once, he's not bothered if the correction will upset Dean. Hearing his older brother talk to him like that brings back memories of their earlier conversation and of the lie Sam doesn't want to admit (even to himself) that he told and that's something he's firmly decided is going to the back of his mind and staying there.

"It's real nice, Sam," Dean appends and Sam smiles sadly. He can see Dean trying not to squint as the dim sunlight filters through the film of ash in the atmosphere and into Dean's photosensitive eyes. Can't help but notice the way he tries not to make it obvious that he's clinging onto the wall for dear life, and it all makes Dean's desperate agreement with him all the more heartbreaking.

_Why? _He wants to plead. _Did they hurt you if you disagreed with them? _

As Sam stares at his big brother, trembling and afraid in the mid-morning light, Sam is filled with an overwhelming urge to _understand_.

"Si…Sam?"

"Hm?" Sam's so surprised at Dean striking up a conversation that it's enough to snap him out of his inner monologue. "What is it?"

"Did…uh…" Dean's staring at his mud and vomit encrusted boots as he speaks, his gaze flickering up to Sam's face for a brief second before shifting away again.

"Did John send you to come get me for punishment?"

There's something about the way Dean says 'punishment' that makes Sam shudder. The way the older man speaks the word as if he's far too familiar with it.

"I-I'll come, I won't fight you," Dean continues, sounding more panicked now in the face of Sam's silence.

"I don't think you could fight me anyway, Dean," Sam sighs before realising that he's just voiced his own thoughts aloud without meaning to. His mouth gapes like a fish as he tries to think of something, _anything _to take back what he just said. After all, Dean's going to take it as a threat or a challenge or something else awful and, god _dammit_. Sam can't believe he -

"No…I guess not." Dean's reply is soft and quiet as he looks from his own shoes to Sam's and then his gaze slides up, inch by inch, until he's _almost _staring Sam in the face.

The elder man's lips are quirked into a tiny smirk as he scuffs at the ground with one shoe. "But, I promise I won't _try_."

Dean's eyes are shining with such _hope _that Sam just wants to throw his arms around his brother and whoop for joy. Dean made a joke _again_! Dean trusted him enough to say something that wasn't 'yes, sir' or 'sorry' or the more common 'fuck off'.

"…if it even matters," Dean adds and Sam grins in response.

"Thanks," he beams before sobering up and reminding himself what Dean was joking about in the first place; the very fact that Dean would joke about something as horrific as 'punishment' is enough to wipe the smile off his face, anyway.

"But I'm not here to bring you for 'punishment'." The young hunter adds air quotes, hoping to convey how alien the concept is to him. Well, perhaps 'alien' isn't quite right…Sam's bottom had certainly been on the receiving end of John's spankings growing up as a child, and, later on, push-ups and sit-ups had left him too exhausted to get into any more trouble.

Sam has a feeling that Dean's punishments were a world apart from Dad's firm but fair style of discipline. The young man closes his eyes and remembers the scars criss-crossing Dean's back…it's more than a feeling – the evidence is there, written across his brother's back in welts and scars and bruising that tell Sam more than Dean ever could.

Sam knows Dean had no hug afterwards, no assurances that it was for his own good, to keep him safe. Just brutal, endless violence that Dean probably had never been able to comprehend.

As he thinks that, Sam wonders why he always finds it so surprising that Dean is constantly so afraid and why he never seems to acknowledge how very hard these tiny glimmers of trust Dean keeps showing him are for his traumatised, older brother.

"Dean…" Sam starts as he begins to walk slowly towards the house. The young man isn't even aware of how his hand has remained curled under Dean's bicep, supporting the older man.

"Dean…if I'm ever a jerk to you, you'll tell me, right?" he asks quietly.

_Like if I lie to you and say I didn't take part in a ritual that's still hurting you now when really I did…_

The malicious whispering in the back of his mind means Sam's only half concentrating on what he's saying.

Dean nods noncommittally, as if he's agreeing on auto-pilot. Sam's already covered Dean's agreeability and he has no desire to drag his thoughts back to that dark place again.

"I…"

Dean swallows past a lump in his throat, staring unseeingly into the middle-distance.

"I'm a jerk sometimes."

Sam's glad he has the steps to the front door to concentrate on because he has _no idea _what to think about _that_.

"I-I don't mean it, though…"

Sam tries in vain to meet Dean's eyes, but they're vacant, like he's lost in his memories. Sam's beginning to believe that it's not a coincidence that Dean's telling him this now. What's happened to Dean to make him admit this? Does Dean have a guilty secret, too?

"Not all the time…"

Dean's tone sounds almost pleading, like he's trying to convince Sam of what he's saying, as though he wants some sort of approval, but Sam _can't_figure out and he curses his mind for failing him when he needs it the most.

As they enter the living room, Sam leads Dean to the couch and the elder man gratefully slumps into the worn leather, hunching up in his familiar corner. He still won't look at Sam, who seats himself at the other end of the sofa.

To Sam it's all just a little overwhelming and he's too busy fighting back tears and déjà vu to form any sort of reply. Could he ever have imagined, all those days ago when they'd been sitting in these exact same positions, at opposite ends of the couch, and Dean had sneered and scowled at their 'heart-to-heart', that they'd ever be anywhere close to having a conversation like this - a _real _heart-to-heart?

"I just…"

Dean's still talking, it's probably about the most he's ever said in one go, Sam thinks, and then curses at himself for thinking about something so dumb at such a pivotal moment.

"I get…I get scared," Dean admits, whispering like he's admitting to some sort of heinous crime.

"I get scared, too," Sam replies. His voice isn't quite a whisper but it's quiet all the same.

_I get scared you're gonna find out the truth, that I took part in that ritual that hurt you. I get scared you're going to hate me forever, that we'll never talk like this again. I get scared that I'm going hurt you so deep that you'll never trust anyone, ever. I get scared of all this responsibility that I'm not strong enough to handle._

There's a pause for a minute as each of the boys contemplates their thoughts and then, to Sam's surprise, it's Dean who breaks it for the second time in a row – that has to be a record.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If I had to kill you…"

_Okay, what the __**fuck**_? Sam's melancholy thoughts are quickly drowned out by the shattering of the gentle, quiet conversation they'd just been having and his brain screeching at him uselessly:_ Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!_

_No, Dean! _he wants to explain. _This isn't how you have a heart-to-heart!_

"Uhm," is all he manages to stammer out – what do you say to an opening like _that_?

"If I had to kill you," Dean repeats, "I wouldn't enjoy it."

And that _has _to be the singularly most fucked up compliment thatSam's ever received. Somehow, when he looks at Dean and thinks of their situation, it seems more than fitting.


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Thank you so much to everyone who left a review for the last chapter. They really cheered me up during a horrible week at work and I hope you know how much I appreciate it.**

Chapter Twenty Four

"Thanks, Dean. I, uh, I don't want to kill you either."

If Dean was looking at his younger brother, he would see the bemused look on Sam's face, the slight raise of his eyebrows and the creases along his forehead. As it is, he simply looks down at the floor, feeling small and embarrassed. What the hell is _wrong_ with him? Talking about his feelings…he doesn't even _have_ 'feelings'. He's bait - he doesn't care enough to have feelings. Why can't he just stop acting like such a girl?

"Whatever," he grumbles back at Sam, too tired and confused to inject much venom into his voice. All he wants to do now is curl up in his dark, little cell and sleep this headache off.

Except…he doesn't even have a cell any more. He sleeps in a bedroom - Sam's bedroom and now John's; he's just in the fucking way here. Sam's probably lying. The guy probably can't wait to kill him and Dean wouldn't blame him if he did; after all, since he's been here, he's done nothing but screw up.

Like now - going outside and throwing up and relying on Sam to bring him back. And now spouting all that sentimental garbage about being scared and being a jerk…

Hell, John's probably chatting to Walker right now.

"_You're right, he is irritating. Too mouthy for my liking. Any chance of a refund?"_

Dean shudders as he imagines the scene, imagines Walker's big hands dragging him kicking and screaming down into the dark and back to the world of pain and loneliness that's a hundred times more terrifying to him now that he's finally away from it.

Has he really become so weak that he wouldn't be able to handle living like that again? Dean casts his mind back over the last few days and remembers the frantic, desperate way he'd pleaded and bargained with John to be allowed to stay with him. This isn't something he's _become_ - he'd _never_been able to handle life with Edwin and Walker and the rest of them. He'd simply endured because he had no choice. Even death hadn't been an option with Robby around. So yeah, he'd lived and endured and survived, but he hadn't 'handled', he hadn't 'coped', and it all just proves how pathetically weak he is.

The young man closes his eyes and briefly considers running. Not now, not this minute when he's so shaky he can barely stand and so distracted that a legion of Hell could sneak up on him unnoticed, but later. He could get Robby and just run away from all this.

_Run where? _a voice in his head taunts. _To the plains? You'd be killed or possessed in an instant. To another camp? You think anyone there is gonna be any more welcoming of a bait and a freak? Face it, humans hate you, demons hate you…you're alone._

Alone? That's fine with him. Being alone would be better than being here with Sam and John who do nothing but confuse the hell out of him, better than being with Walker and Edwin's cronies who are probably just itching to play another round of 'beat the shit out of the bait'.

Alone…the only time when he's truly safe.

"Dean?"

The voice surprises him; he'd been so caught up in his feeling of loneliness that he'd forgotten, for a second, that he _wasn't _alone. Is it wrong to be relieved about that? _Why _is he relieved about that? Goddamn it, nothing makes sense any more.

"Are you alright?"

Dean turns to look at Sam as the guy speaks again.

_Focus! _he reprimands himself as he nods.

"I'm fine."

"You keep spacing out," Sam observes and Dean scowls. As much as he hates to admit it, Sam's right. He needs to keep his head together. Maybe Sam isn't going to hit him…._maybe_…but that doesn't mean he can just sit here and daydream – there's more ways to hurt someone than with a fist or a whip. Dean knows that all too well.

"Is it your head?" Sam asks and Dean frowns before he realises what Sam is talking about.

"Not really," he replies honestly. "I -." His voice catches in his throat and he coughs quietly to clear it. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I keep thinking about…everything."

"It's called relaxing, Dean," Sam informs him with a smile and Dean squares his jaw in annoyance.

Sam's words send his memory reeling back to the first night he was here - it can't be more than two weeks ago now - and remembers the words he'd told himself then:

_You can't relax here. Relax and you're dead. Trust them and you're dead. You have to stay sharp!_

It's _that_voice he should be listening to right now, not the hesitant whispers in his mind that tell him things might be okay, that maybe this 'family' shit actually means something, that maybe Sam is right and he _is _more than a weapon in someone's arsenal. The whispers that get louder every day.

_Sam didn't do that ritual on you. Everyone else did, but he didn't. He's different._

But different is dangerous, unpredictable…frightening. Like now, when Sam's hand is straying to his hip. Anyone else would be reaching for a gun or a knife or something else to hurt him with, but not Sam…not yet, anyway.

"I've got something for you," Sam tells him as he reaches into his pocket and Dean tracks his younger brother's hand curiously.

"I meant to give you this a while ago," the younger man explains as he slowly pulls out a delicate chain until he retrieves a golden pendant. Dean stares at it warily, wondering how he's supposed to react.

"The man who gave it to me told me it was for protection," Sam explains before tossing it onto the empty seat between them.

Dean narrows his eyes and looks from Sam to the pendant and then back to Sam again. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," Sam insists and Dean's taken aback by the honesty in his brother's eyes. The innocence there reminds him of how Robby often looks at him: such an eager desire to make him happy, a burning desire to see him smile...Dean's never understood that.

Well, Robby had probably wanted to keep him happy so he didn't get the shit kicked out of him - at first, anyway. Dean can get that. But Sam…Sam freaking _owns_him. What reason does _he _have to care about Dean's feelings?

"Why...why are you giving this to me?" the young man frowns. Is this a reward? He sure as hell hasn't done anything to earn a reward. If anything, he deserves punishing.

"Well…if you can't think of it as a present, think of it as a reminder," Sam replies and Dean has no idea what he means.

"I can remember things," he assures his younger brother. There was always hell to pay if he ever forgot one of Edwin's orders; even when they were numerous and almost impossible to follow, Edwin didn't tolerate forgetfulness. Dean learned that lesson well.

"Well, next time you get scared and you start thinking about being a jerk, you can look at this and remember there's nothing to be scared of."

Nothing to be scared of? That's a joke. Dean feels a pang of sympathy for Sam and his misguided notions; _he _obviously wasn't the one on the receiving of John's ritual and _he _wasn't the one who spent every day fighting to survive.

"That's not how to make me remember," he replies dully, his mind too busy reeling in his memories to concentrate on what he's saying in the present.

"You should hit me," he explains to Sam earnestly. "If I forget, you should punish me, hard, so I remember. And then if I still forget you should do it again, harder, longer, till I remember all the time and I don't make mistakes."

"D-Dean…"

Dean's too worked up to pay any attention to Sam's stammered interruption. "You should do it now, Sam, cos I went outside."

"I…no…"

Sam looks pale and worried, and for some reason, that makes Dean feel a little weird. He prefers Sam when he's being all weird and goofy.

"I won't fight you," he adds, hoping to cheer his brother up. "You can just take your belt to me. I won't struggle. I'll be still -."

"Dean, stop it! Shut up!"

Dean startles at this, both at the loudness of Sam's voice and the fact that, now that he thinks about it, this is the first time the guy has actually yelled at him.

"Just…just stop it, okay?" Sam pleads as he runs as a hand through his long hair.

Dean watches as the curly brown strands fall messily back into place and then looks away. What's he done wrong now? He was only trying to help.

"I'm not going to…to…I'm not gonna hurt you."

Dean's alarmed to see that Sam's actually kinda crying. The sight reminds him of Robby, but unlike Robby, Dean has no idea how to cheer Sam up. His earlier attempt obviously didn't work and yet…

Why the hell does he care about cheering Sam up, anyway? It's not his fault the guy's a crybaby.

"Remember, I promised I wouldn't hurt you, didn't I?"

And Dean's _almost _sure he catches a glimpse of a flinch at those words. The way Sam's eyes won't meet his own for the briefest of seconds, the slight hitch in his voice, the tone that's a little too eager. Something's not right, but Dean doesn't want to pressure Sam like he did John. Better to have Sam as an ally than to be living with _two_potential enemies. _._

"You will," Dean whispers, not having the courage or the desire to make his argument any louder. "One day you will, when I screw up."

"I won't," Sam argues desperately. "You're my brother, and I know it doesn't mean much to you yet, but it's important to me. I love you and that's why I'd never hurt you."

Dean freezes at that. Has anyone ever said those words to him before? Love? What does it even properly _mean, _anyway? Dean's not really sure, but it sounds way too confusing and scary to deal with. He remembers Edwin 'loved' to hurt him, and that just makes Dean surer that it's an emotion he doesn't want to be associated with. Someone feeling that strongly about him is just…wrong; you don't even _care_ about bait, let alone _love_ it.

And hell, it's not like he's worthy of love anyway - he talked about killing Sam, pretty much threatened to do it; Sam's the _last_person who should care about him. Sam should hate him, _would _hate him if he knew.

Maybe Dean should just tell him and get it over with, go back to being what he truly should be - alone. It's not like he even wanted to like this guy He doesn't remember giving himself permission to care about anyone else.

_You __**don't **__care, _he reminds himself. But nevertheless, Dean knows that if he wants to keep getting fed, wants to keep his strength up, then he needs to stay on Sam's good side. And if the only cost is that he has to wear some dumb necklace, well, he's done worse. Much worse.

Dean's proud that he only hesitates for a fraction of a second before snatching the amulet in a move so fast that Sam wouldn't have had time to _think _about changing his mind.

"It's mine now," he declares to Sam, jutting out his jaw defiantly.

"Aren't you going to wear it?" Sam asks and it's only then that Dean realises how tightly his fist is curled around his prize. He unfurls his hand slowly and watches as his knuckles turn from white back to a healthy pink and then, slowly, warily, slips the chain over his head. The delicate links are a far cry from the chains he's used to wearing.

The amulet thumps lightly once against his sternum and then hangs there, a comforting weight around his neck that feels familiar to him already.

"It suits you."

Dean startles at the sound of a familiar voice.

_John._

His hand automatically reaches for the amulet and he clutches it defensively. "It's mine," he warns the older man before turning and looking to Sam for support. John might not believe Dean, but he'll doubtless believe Sam.

"No one's going to take it from you," John assures him and Dean simply glares – damn right they ain't, not without a fight. It's _his_.

_And besides_, the young man thinks nervously, _I kinda need all the protection I can get right now_.

"John, Sir?" he tries to focus on the feel of metal against his skin and not the nauseating knot of nervousness in his stomach.

"Yeah?"

At least having his hand wrapped around the pendant stops it from shaking.

"I -." Dean unfurls his fist just a fraction, enough to see a glimpse of gold through the gap in his fingers, and then to Sam before finally settling on John. He's not scared. Not at all.

"I wanna see Robby."

His heart is pounding so loudly he can hardly even hear himself say the words. For a second, he's not sure if he _has _actually said them because John's not reacting and it still _feels _like they're stuck in his throat. But he did, didn't he? He actually made a…a what? A request? No – Dean doesn't make requests; he's not that lame. A demand. Yeah, that's what it was; he _demanded_ to see Robby and -

Dean's so caught up in the repercussions of his own out-of-turn comment that he's almost forgotten that John's supposed to answer him. It's only when the older man _does _reply that Dean stops for a second, frozen by his father's one word response that's working its way through his auditory system, into his mind and systematically stripping away every fragile layer of self-confidence and courage he's managed to build up.

"No."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty Five

Soft, gentle hands are stroking his temples, and even though he knows he shouldn't, Robby can't help but lean into the caress. In his world of darkness, the sensation of someone else's hands is his lifeline. He's not alone and that's all that matters.

But still…

"I can't see," he whispers forlornly, not sure what he's hoping to gain from the admission.

"Soon." The word is no more than a fleeting whisper in his ear, but he clings to it, the only glimmer of hope in this isolation. Even as the young man fades into unconsciousness, the promise echoes in his head and keeps the nightmares at bay, for a few hours, at least.

* * *

"You can see him later," John promises as he meets the eyes of his furious son.

He's aware of how pathetic his assurances must sound to Dean; hell, they sound pathetic even to _him_. But, as much as he loathes giving his son yet another reason to hate him, there's just too much at stake to do otherwise. He's made bigger sacrifices than this to keep the secret, they _all _have. Whatever the cost, if he let Dean see _her_, then Missouri would never forgive him. He'd never forgive himself.

"Why can't we see Robby _now_?" Sam demands and John sighs in frustration.

His youngest can usually tell when John's trying to tell him something; they've hunted together for so long that Sam's learned to interpret his body language in an instant, but when Dean's around, his youngest's instincts seem to go haywire. Either that or the boy's just showing off by being deliberately awkward, which wouldn't surprise John much; he _knows _his boy and he hasn't missed the way Sam's been clamouring for his older brother's approval.

John sighs and begins to count slowly to ten in his head before giving up at four and replying anyway.

"Because…because Robby's not ready for visitors." Okay, so he's never claimed to be any sort of actor, but surely he could have come up with something better than _that_.

"When did you see him?" Sam demands, rising to his feet.

Dean's attempt at standing is a little more unsteady and less dramatic than his brother's, but when he's up, he turns to John with a look of fury that makes the hunter's breath catch in his throat. He's never seen his son look so damned _vicious _before.

"What have you done to him?"

Dean's tone is enough to make John nervous and there's not a lot that scares John Winchester. He's beginning to think that he may have made a miscalculation here; he's _certainly _underestimated Dean's concern for this boy. What else about his son has he gotten wrong these past few weeks? It hurts to realise how little he knows about his own boy.

"I didn't do anything," he promises, feeling himself sweat under the intensity of Dean's gaze.

"Liar," Dean scowls at him and John _still _can't look away from those furious eyes long enough to compose himself.

Something has gone drastically wrong here - he's the father in this situation! _He_ should be the one in control! How can his abused, exhausted son inspire such fear in him? It's pathetic. And it _is _fear in his stomach, not guilt, no way; he doesn't even have _room _for anymore guilt in his life and he dealt with his issues about this secret a decade ago.

"I'm a lot of things, Dean, but I'm _not_a liar," he counters back. The anger in Dean's eyes just fuels his own rage. He doesn't deserve this shit off his son - he's done nothing wrong. "And you've got no damned right to call me one," he adds, glowering at his eldest.

"Dad!"

Sam's indignant voice is just what John _doesn't _want to hear right now, but it at least causes Dean to break the stern, unflinching eye contact that they've been maintaining for far too long.

"Sam, I'm not going to argue about this," John insists, taking a step towards his sons as he speaks. "Sit down and we can talk about it."

He's barely even begun to take his next step when Dean reacts, his arm extending at his side until it's slung protectively in front of Sam's chest.

"He ain't the one arguing, it's me," he declares. "You wanna punish someone then you can punish _me_."

And it's only _then _that John remembers he has no right to be angry. The idea of punishing Dean has _never _entered his head, not once, and yet, throughout this whole conversation, that's all Dean has been thinking about.

Dean thinks he _can't _argue with him as an equal and John needs to get it through his damned skull that he _can, _that it's normal for sons to butt heads with their fathers. Hell, Sam is living proof of that.

Sure, the kid might push his buttons, but while John sees them as father and son, _Dean _sees them as bait and owner. No wonder they haven't been on the same page. It's all too easy to be consumed by Dean's façade of arrogance and back-talk and, as hard as it is, John knows he needs to distance himself somewhat.

Distance himself from the son he lost for twenty years…it goes against every ounce of paternal instinct he has. And despite what people might think, John has paternal instinct in spades.

"Dean…" Sam's voice is an interesting mixture of surprise and awe as he stares down at Dean's arm in front of his chest and then to the elder man's determined face. "You don't have to -."

"I'm not gonna 'punish' anyone," John interrupts, suddenly realising that he hasn't explained that he's not going to kick the shit out of his youngest son to Dean. He doesn't dwell on the fact that he shouldn't have to.

The hunter watches as Dean glances warily to Sam, his eyes leaving John's for the briefest of moments before snapping right back again when Sam nods earnestly.

Slowly, warily, the boy lowers his arm.

"I know you want to see your friend, Dean." John's trying to keep his voice calm and placating, trying to imagine how Jim Murphy would say the words. But hell, placating doesn't come easily to a man who usually doesn't take crap from anyone.

"I promise, Jim and Missouri are taking good care of him."

"Like they took good care of me?" Dean snipes, tapping his temple pointedly.

"I told you -." John stops and sighs deeply. Just minutes ago he promised himself that he was going to stop letting himself get riled up by Dean's taunts. And as he sees Dean's hate-filled eyes cloud momentarily with pain, he wonders if that _was _a taunt or just Dean being honest. It's the first time he's stopped arguing enough to wonder. Maybe this thinking before speaking thing has some merit.

"Robby is fine," he promises, "and in a few days, you can see him."

"Why can't we see him now?" Sam questions before Dean has a chance to ask the same thing.

For the moment John hates himself for raising such an independent, strong-willed son. He _can't _tell his boys the _real_ reason, but he doesn't want to lie, either. On the other hand, he knows that Sam won't settle for anything but a full and detailed explanation - knowing his son, he'll probably want diagrams, too - and John doesn't have anything close to that.

"Dean's too sick to walk all that way," he finally blurts. If his tone had been more authoritative, it might have worked. If he had made it seem like it was all about Dean's well-being and not just an excuse he pulled out of his ass, then it might have been at least enough to placate Sam, if not both of them.

"I feel fine now, Sir."

Watching Dean transform from a snarling, brutalised slave into an obedient 'bait' is just sickening for John. The fact that his son even thinks he _needs _to do that to keep John happy is bad enough, let alone that he seems to think John would actually _believe _that his defiance was only temporary. How broken must Edwin have believed Dean was?

John feels a swell of pride at his stubborn, unbroken son. He's damaged, yes, screwed up, yes, but somehow his boy has emerged, against all the odds, with his spirit intact. John can see the cost of it spelled out in scars across his son's flesh, written in every cold stare, every suspicious, bitter comment, every emotionless shrug, every apathetic 'whatever'.

"I could carry him!" Sam adds with a beaming smile, which quickly fades at Dean's pissed-off glare.

"I can _walk_," he scowls and Sam nods timidly.

"Or…he could walk," he grins weakly, shooting Dean an apologetic glance.

"No, on both counts," John insists, trying not to roll his eyes at the antics of his sons. "You can't see Robby for a couple of days. I'm sorry, boys, but you're going to have to trust me."

Dean's eyes, which just a few seconds ago had been burning holes into him, turn to ice as he finishes his sentence. It's like watching a set of switches go off in Dean's mind as the shutters come down on his emotions, and as hard as he might try, John can't see any trace of his laughing, loveable little boy in the vicious young man standing in front of him.

"I'm sorry, Sir."

There's not a hint of apology in Dean's voice and John can do nothing to fight the rising swell of panic that something very bad is about to happen. And then he can do nothing to stop the fist hurtling towards his face or the fact that he's dropping to the ground like a brick.

Through the ringing in his ears all John can hear is his son's emotionless voice.

"But you're going to have to let me."


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six

Dad's on the floor. Dad's been hit in the face. By Dean. _Dean _hit dad in the face. _Dean__** hit **__Dad - in the__** face! **_

The more Sam thinks about this, the less it makes sense. He's standing open-mouthed and gawking at his father and older brother, and the harder he tries to comprehend the situation, the less things seem to make sense.

"Sam, come on."

On some level, Sam registers the fact that his brother is speaking to him, but his thoughts are stuck in a garbled loop of 'DeanhitDad' and the young hunter can't even wrap his thoughts around _that_, much less process anything else.

"Sam!" Dean's voice again, urgent, insistent.

From the floor, John groans and begins to pull himself upright. Sam's eyes are immediately drawn to the crimson stain on his father's upper lip. Dean didn't just hit Dad - he busted Dad's lip!

"Fuck." Dean again and Sam knows he should be replying. But…Dean just punched their Dad; what's he supposed to say?

He opens his mouth a few times, almost hoping the right words will just automatically come out. Unfortunately, all he manages to achieve is a mumbled "Huh?".

It isn't until Dean lifts his leg over John's form that Sam finally manages to snap out of his stupor. The jarring mental image of the damage that Dean's much-loved boots could potentially do to their father is enough to force his vocal cords to synchronize with his brain again.

"Dean! No! Stop it!" Okay, so he's still not quite as eloquent as usual, but he's going to cut himself some slack – what are you _supposed _to say when your long lost brother is beating up your father because he's not allowed to visit his critically ill cellmate?

"C'mon, Sam, we gotta get out of here before he -."

In some ways, Sam's grateful that Dad recovers from the blow faster than Dean must have anticipated; it means he doesn't have to make the choice of following his brother or staying with his father.

On the other hand, it's clearly not calming Dean down when Dad grabs hold of his brother's ankle and grimly declares "Too late."Dean immediately lashes out with his foot in an attempt to shake Dad's grip and Sam cringes, but he forces himself into hunter-mode when his father narrowly avoids a boot in the face. He grabs Dean's arm and drags his brother away from their dad.

And then _he's_ dodging blows as Dean struggles in his grasp.

"Fuck, Sam! Get off me!"

Dean's strong and scared, and Sam will readily admit that restraining the older man is no easy feat. But Dean is also sick and malnourished, so despite all his fighting skills, he's no match for Sam's superior strength, and the younger Winchester quickly pins Dean's arms behind his back.

"Just calm down, Dean!" the young hunter pleads as he drags Dean another pace backwards.

His hip bashes the edge of the sofa painfully and he can't help but remember that just minutes ago, the two of them were sitting there talking. When exactly did things turn so drastically wrong?

"Calm down?! He's gonna fucking kill me, Sam….Sir. _Please._"

Dean's eyes are wide with panic as their father drags himself to his feet. As much as Sam wants to reassure his brother that there's nothing to worry about, he has to admit their Dad _does _look pissed.

But hell, Dad wouldn't hit Dean…would he? After all, last time Dean threw a punch their Dad hadn't flown off the handle. Then again, last time Dean's punch didn't even land, let alone bust their father's lip.

"I'm not gonna kill you, son."

Sam wants to breathe a sigh of relief after hearing that, but if he relaxes, Dean will probably bolt. God, he doesn't want to have to think about stuff like this; all he wants is for Dean to feel safe.

"Fuck you!" Dean's voice is a bitter shout with only the slightest hitch at the end.

God, it _hurts _to hear Dean sound this afraid.

"It's okay. We can settle this. No one's mad," Sam promises.

"And fuck you, too!" Dean snarls at him.

Sam can feel his brother straining against the double armlock he's trapped in. Sam knows his own strength and he knows that Dean must be hurting himself fighting against the hold, but he also knows that he can't let go; it's obvious Dean's gonna bolt the first chance he gets and if they lose him this time, it might be for good. Dad would never forgive him if that happened and Sam would never forgive himself. At the same time, is he going to be able to forgive himself for _this_ - for restraining his petrified brother, so that (in Dean's view) John can come beat him up, for stopping him from going to see his injured best friend?

How has one blunt refusal from his father ruined a fortnight of progress? Dean was _talking_to him! Dean was opening up, he was feeling _safe_ and now…dammit, this is all Dad's fault! Everything had been going so great until he showed up.

Why can't they go and visit Robby, anyway? It's all Dean's ever asked for. That first night, even though he'd gone for four days without food, he hadn't asked for anything to eat; he'd just slept like Sam and Dad had ordered, even though he must have been starving. The next day, covered in dirt and dried blood, he hadn't asked to shower. He'd been injured and bleeding, but he'd never asked for bandages.

Hell, the only thing even _close_ to a request that Sam can remember is when Dean dared to beg Dad not to give him back to a man who had hurt and abused him for twenty years, and even then his brother had expected to pay a heavy price for it.

And now he'll probably never ask for anything again because John Winchester just crushed the closest thing that Dean's ever had to hope with one stupid, pointless denial.

"Just stop fighting, Dean. Settle down." Dad's rapidly closing the gap between them now and Sam can feel Dean start trembling as he clings to the elder man. "Everything's gonna be alright."

"Fuck you!" Dean screams again. Sam watches a bead of perspiration trickle down the back of Dean's neck. "You _know _how to make me stop. Just say it! Do it!"

Sam has no idea what Dean's yelling about, but it doesn't sound good. Whatever it is the elder man wants Dad to do, Sam hopes that Dad won't do it.

"Two little words, Sir…" Dean finally stops struggling, although he's still shaking. Sam's so tense that he doesn't think he could relax his grip even if he wanted to.

Dad takes another pace and then stops. The man can't be more than four feet away, but to Sam, the gap between them feels like an impassable gulf. The man is staring straight at Dean and when he finally speaks, his tone is as emotionless as his eyes.

"Dominus stratum."

Dean's reaction, however, is beyond emotion as he flinches with his whole body. Sam can almost _feel _the waves of terror radiating from his older brother. Jeez, he'd thought Dean was scared _before_ - that was nothing compared to this. All of a sudden, he's not so much holding his brother still as holding his brother _upright_.

Sam's panting from the exertion of grappling with his older brother, but Dean's breathing is even harsher, hitching tremors punctuating the ragged breaths.

Dean stays that way for almost half a minute until he seems to come to his senses, warily cracking open one eye and then the other and blinking a few times. His voice is a mere murmur, as he looks to Sam and then to John in quiet astonishment.

"It doesn't hurt."

"I told you, Dean." John takes another step forward. "I'm not a liar."

And, whilst that might be true, Sam knows all too well that his father has more than a few dirty little secrets he's not going to air voluntarily. Is this another one of them? Is there some secret reason why Dean can't see Robby? What will it take for Sam to wheedle it out of their Dad? Whatever it is, Sam knows he's got to do it. Dean might be stunned enough to keep quiet now, but the guy recovers fast and Sam doesn't want there to be _another _fight, doesn't want Dean to have _another _reason to run.

"If you're not gonna lie to us, Dad…"

Sam _knows_his father is going to hate him for this but, hell, the guy's being a selfish asshole and _someone _needs to stick up for Dean. And hey, it won't hurt to show his brother that there are other ways to get what you want other than beating someone up.

"Tell us why," the young hunter finishes, staring unflinchingly into John's narrowed eyes.

He can feel Dean twisting in his grasp as the older man cranes his neck to stare at him. For once, he doesn't want to see the little glimmer of almost-hope in Dean's eyes; after all, here he is, forcing the truth out of their father when he's selfishly guarding his own secrets so that he doesn't have to deal with Dean's rejection. Dad might keep secrets but Sam's all out _lied_; how can he claim the moral high ground here?

_It was for Dean's own good_, he reminds himself, overly aware of Dean's trembling body in his arms. _And __**this **__is for Dean's own good, too. _The guy **needs **to see his friend, **needs **to know he's safe.

"Just tell us the truth," he pleads with his father, watching the man square his jaw in frustration.

"The truth?" John challenges and Sam nods, almost bumping heads with his shorter brother.

"You wouldn't be able to handle the truth," John declares. Sam tenses in fury, only relaxing when Dean gives a barely stifled whimper and he remembers that he _really _shouldn't put any more stress on Dean's arms.

_I'm sorry, _he apologises in his mind, _but I just want to keep you safe. _

Dean, however, is clearly not picking up on any of Sam's signals as he glares furiously at John. "What the fuck have you done to him?!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam demands when it's clear that John's not going to answer _Dean's _question.

"Sam, every secret I've kept from you has been for the greater good, and so is this. There are some things you're just not ready to hear and this is one of them."

"Bullshit, Dad!" Sam yells in retaliation and John simply shakes his head.

"Tell me!" the youngest Winchester demands.

Why the _hell_is his father treating him like a goddamned _child_? He's Sam Winchester, he's a renowned hunter at only twenty years old and his own _father_ - whose life he's saved on more than one occasion - is saying he's not _ready_for this?

"I'll tell you _this_,Sam," John begins with a dangerous tone in his voice that makes Sam wonder if he's gone too far. "You're _not_going to Jim's - _either _of you."

"That's not _fair_!" Sam exclaims, infuriated by his stubborn father.

"You wanna know what's not fair, Sam? It's not fair that my own son won't trust his father enough to accept that he knows what's best. And it _wouldn't_be fair for me to put this burden on your shoulders."

"But I want -."

"Besides," John shrugs with a slight smirk, "it looks you've already got your hands full."

* * *

He's not much to look at, that's for sure, with scruffy hair that might be blonde under all the dirt, and dull grey eyes that won't look any higher than Jim's neck. The dirt-encrusted rags that barely pass as the boy's clothes are hanging from his short frame, and a pair of holey, battered sneakers are peeking out from beneath the folds of dark, baggy denim.

Jim's taken street children and orphans into his care in the past and he's proud that some of them have grown into well-adjusted, productive members of the camp. But this isn't some kid who's just been abandoned at the roadside - he's dealing with someone who grew up in the same environment as _Dean_. Jim's already seen the results of that kind of upbringing, but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to seeing it again or that he has any better idea of how to deal with it.

"Well, hey there." The pastor tries to keep his voice light and cheerful as he studies the boy's body language.

The kid is sitting cross-legged on the sofa cushion, his hands fidgeting aimlessly in his lap while his gaze darts between the exits and Jim, lingering on the pastor's hands. He can recognise the similarities between this boy and Dean instantly: the bowed head, the hunched up, defensive position, the tensed muscles.

"My name's Jim Murphy," the pastor continues. The kid looks up briefly at this, meeting his eyes for a fleeting second before quickly dropping his gaze back to the floor. So the kid's listening, which is something, at least, and since he hasn't been hit or told to 'fuck off' so far, Jim guesses it might be safe to venture into deeper water with the boy.

"What's your name, son?"

The kid looks up at him again and then at the floor before finally settling on Jim's face for more than a millisecond as he answers.

"Scrap."

So the first word out of the kid's mouth is an apparent lie, over something as simple as a name - that gives Jim an idea of what he's dealing with here.

_Then again... _Jim closes his eyes and shudders as he remembers the sickening scars on Dean's arm. Having a name where Dean and Robby grew up wasn't anything even close to simple.

"Scrap, huh?" he comments, stalling as he tries to think of something to say that will get the boy talking.

"Yes, Sir."

Okay, so Jim had been hoping for a little more than that.

"That's an interesting name." Stalling, stalling, stalling.

"Yes, Sir."

The boy's not even looking at him as he replies, his eyes still trained submissively on the floor, although every now and then they'll flicker around the room searchingly. Jim wonders if the kid just has Dean's habit of searching out all the exits or if there's something he's missing. It's only when he notices one of Robby's hands trailing through his grubby blonde hair that he remembers: the _hat_! _**Bobby Singer's**_hat! How on Earth could he have forgotten about _that? _Heck, it's all he's heard about from John Winchester for the past week.

The pastor is oddly nervous about turning his back on the boy, even if it is only to reach inside the weapons chest and retrieve the hat that he'd stashed there, but he figures the kid's unarmed and too scrawny to be much of a threat.

"Here." Jim turns around and finds Robby sitting in exactly the same position. "I think this is yours."

The kid glances to the hat longingly and then to Jim, but makes no move to take it, simply nodding and replying again, "Yes, Sir."

Guessing that the kid isn't going to open up much with something as 'valuable' as his hat at stake, Jim reaches out and places the cap gently on the kid's head.

The boy draws back from him with a startled gasp, his eyes wide and afraid, but when Jim moves back a little out of Robby's personal space, the kid relaxes a fraction, his hands reaching up gingerly for the cap balanced precariously on his head.

For what must be half a minute, the kid just stares at Jim, clutching the dirty old cap in a shaking hand. His words, when he finally speaks, emerge no more than a whisper. "Thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome, Scrap." It feels weird using such an unusual nickname, but Jim's going to respect the kid's wishes. If that's what the boy wants to be called, then who is Jim to argue, anyway?

"You've been sick for a while, son. Do you remember anything?"

Heck, she'd only said one word to him, but if Robby remembers it...Jim doesn't want to think about what they might have to do to the boy, doesn't want to dwell on the fact that he's keeping a human being's life as a dirty little secret and what it might cost the abused, traumatised teenager in front of him.

"I still won't tell you."

The boy sounds so exhausted, tears glimmering in those wide grey eyes as he stares at his knees. Jim just wants to embrace the boy and drive away the loneliness that emanates from him in waves.

His heart breaks when the kid finally gets the nerve to look up again and speaks in a defeated, hollow tone. "I'm ready for my punishment now, Sir."

Good Lord, dealing with _Dean _had been upsetting, but heavens above, at least Dean still has some spark in him, something that gives Jim hope the boy can heal. _This _kid is just...Jim refuses to even think of the word. Here he is, writing the boy off as a lost cause after only a few minutes of talking to him. No, no one is beyond redemption; Jim believes that with every ounce of his being.

"Punishment for what, Scrap?" the pastor questions gently, still keeping a safe distance away from the boy.

"For not finding Dea - the Bait. For getting sick. For -."

"Alright, alright," Jim interrupts the boy. "I'm not going to punish you for anything, you understand?"

Robby doesn't indicate either way, just blinks once. The silent observance is a little unnerving to Jim, but he tries not to show it - the kid's watching him like a hawk and undoubtedly picking up on his body language.

And then the kid finally gives him reason to smile as he breaks into a scowl that's only slightly less intimidating than Dean's and shrugs with the same unaffected nonchalance the Winchester boy has mastered so well.

"Whatever."

And that's all it takes for Jim to realise that he was right when he recognised Robby as more than just some street kid; he's got a would-be Winchester on his hands here and _that _can only mean trouble.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty Seven

"You can't do this." Sam states this like it's an absolute truth, despite the unavoidable evidence that his father _can_ and _is _doing this.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." Another falsehood – if his Dad was _sorry, _he wouldn't be handcuffing him to the bed frame next to Dean.

"It's Sam," he responds, mainly out of habit; his irritating childhood nickname really is the least of his worries right now.

"I wish I didn't have to do this, really I do." John's shaking his head sadly but Sam can't muster up an ounce of sympathy.

"You _don't_," he counters passionately. What on Earth can be so important that his Dad would treat him like this over it? And not just him; _Dean, _too.

Sam glances at his older brother, who's glowering at John and looking for all the world like he'd love nothing more than to finish the beating he'd started earlier. And hell, Dean hadn't done a bad job of trying; he'd managed to get a few more hits in while John had grappled with him. There's a small, round bruise on Dad's right cheekbone where Dean had lashed out with a backhand, hitting with his second knuckle to leave a deep, painful bruise right on the corner of the bone.

Sam hadn't been able to bring himself to help either of them during the tussle and Dean, in turn, had made no move to help him when it was unexpectedly _Sam's _turn to struggle with John.

It's easy to forget that the same Dean who, sick and exhausted though he is, fought so valiantly against their father, the same Dean who's now glaring daggers from his vulnerable position, refusing to show any fear, is the same Dean who brokenly pleaded with Sam not to chain him up less than two weeks ago.

If Dad had ever taken the time to get to know Dean, he would know that this is one of Dean's nightmares come true. If Sam had ever _told _him what Dean had shared with him instead of keeping the elder man's tiny instances of trust gleefully to himself like trophies of his own credibility, then maybe neither of them would be stuck in this nightmare.

"I won't be gone more than a couple of hours," John promises and Sam can do nothing but stare.

The young hunter's heart seems to have relocated to somewhere down in his abdomen, perhaps attempting to get away from his brain which is constantly reminding him that this is _real _and that Dad is actually moving towards the door and therefore _leaving_!Leaving him here, trapped and defenceless.

What if Dean decides he wants revenge for this and decides to turn his violent attentions to _Sam_? What if Dad gets injured and doesn't come back in time? What if they end up starving to death? Dean's got unbelievably strong survival instincts...what would heresort to if-

"Sam. Dean."

Sam clings to his father's voice like a lifeline, dragging him out and away from his hysteria. This is his _Dad _after all – he _won't_do this. Any minute now, he's going to explain how he was just teaching them a lesson and let them free and they'll go see Robby. Sam can _feel _himself relaxing as his rational thoughts begin to overpower his panic. This secret, whatever it is, must be really important for his Dad to go this far. He'll just apologize, say he's learned his lesson, and that'll be that, right?

The young hunter smiles as his Dad starts to speak again, already imagining the relief once he's free of the cuff around his wrist. Dean simply glares, and the intensity of his stare seems to affect even John, who swallows a couple of times before finishing his sentence.

"I love you both."

And then he's gone. Sam's chained to the bed and Dad is gone. What the hell is Sam supposed to do now?

* * *

"He'll be back," Sam informs Dean for fifth time in as many minutes. "He's probably just standing outside. He'll be back in any minute now, just you wait."

Dean struggles not to roll his eyes and then gives in and does it anyway. There's not much Sam can do to punish him with only one arm, and without the binding ritual (man, that's weird to think about), Dean's a good deal less helpless than usual.

"Why do you even _want _him back, anyway?" he asks his brother, shooting a confused glare in the younger man's direction. "You in a hurry to get beaten or something?"

"Dad is _not_gonna 'beat' us, Dean," Sam replies irritably, and Dean wonders if he's hit a sore spot. Anyone else and Dean might press further to piss 'em off and make an enemy out of them. After all, excluding Robby from the equation, Dean is far more used to being trapped in a room with someone who hates him than with someone who doesn't.

But this is Sam and he wants the guy on his side. Sure, the kid's a goof who probably can't fight his way out of a paper bag, but with a little time, Dean thinks the two of them could take John down. They'd have to run, of course, but they could deal with that. Once they rescued Robby, his eyes would help, and they could lay low for awhile...yeah, that would work.

_No more of..., _Dean tugs on the handcuff once, _**this**__._

Hell, they wouldn't even have to take John down at all; just having someone on his side would be nice. Someone to watch his back, if only for a couple of hours so he can get some sleep without worrying about getting another dose of the not-painkillers.

But how easy will it be to get Sam to like him? Dean's bait, for crying out loud, and Sam is a hunter. A bait is a hunter's weapon, not his friend. Baits aren't even supposed to _have _friends.

And shit, he can never say the right things, even when he's trying.

_I __**am**__ trying_, he tells Sam in his mind, wishing that his brother could have been born a mind reader or an empath or _something _that would be a damn sight more helpful to Dean than simple precognition_._ Well, since that ain't gonna happen, he's going to have to do it the hard way...actually talking. Shit.

"I'm sorry," the words sound awkward to his own ears and he clutches his amulet in the hand that's currently _not_ chained to the bed. The sharp points and dull curves provide a welcome distraction from the fact that he has no idea what he's doing.

"Sorry for what, Dean?" Sam asks gently, shifting his weight on the bed until he's more comfortable. Dean looks at the dent in the mattress that Sam's weight makes and then looks down at himself – the bed barely even dips.

God, he's ugly - sick and swamped by clothes he doesn't deserve to own. How could he have ever imagined Sam would be his ally? He's a piece of bait and that's all; why does Sam make it so easy for him to forget that?

"Doesn't matter," the young man shrugs, rolling over onto his side so he doesn't have to see Sam staring at him, probably thinking about what an annoying, whining bitch his older brother is.

"Well..."

Here it comes: _Shut up, Bait. No one wants to hear you. You say another word and the only sound coming from your throat for the next week will be the sound of you screaming, I promise you that._

"I'm sorry, too."

Wait. What?

It goes against all his instincts, but Dean can't help but turn back around at that. He winces as the rough metal of the handcuff scraps the inside of his bony wrist.

"You could've run," Sam explains. "I don't know how far you would've gotten, but..."

"I wouldn't have made it." Dean realises that now. The old geezer is a _tough_son of a bitch, and a determined one, too – the metal encircling his and Sam's wrists is evidence enough of that. He couldn't have made it and if Sam had let him go, the punishment probably would have been ten times worse than whatever John's going to dole out when he gets home.

"No, but..." Sam sighs and Dean wonders what happened to the goofy kid who had offered to carry him (not a chance in Hell that _that's_ going to happen, by the way) across the plains. This Sam sounds as weary as Dean feels. It's probably Dean's fault; he's probably said the wrong thing already.

"I didn't know he was gonna do this."

Sam rattles the cuff in explanation and Dean shrugs.

"It was only a matter of time."

"I just wanted you to stop hurting him."

Oh fuck, now Sam's _crying_. Dean was _trying _to be 'nice' and the guy is crying. Shit, he's just going to have to try harder.

"What the hell are you crying for? It's not gonna be _that _painful." See, he can do nice. He didn't even swear _and_ he reminded Sam that he could be in so much more pain.

"He's my _Dad_, Dean!" Sam exclaims and Dean nods. He already knew that...is he missing something here? Probably.

"_Our_ Dad!"

_Well, technically_, Dean supposes. Do you still count as someone's father if you sell them into slavery at four years old? Dean's not gonna argue about that right now.

"He's our Dad and he's chained us to the fucking bed!" Dean shifts away as Sam's tone rises to shouting volume. This is _so _not going according to plan.

"He...he left you water, though," Dean points out with a weak smile, staring at the bottle of water on the bedside table (which is, for the record, the shittiest attempt at a table Dean's ever seen). "He wouldn't do that if he didn't lik - love you."

"It's _our _water, Dean, for _both _of us," Sam speaks slowly, looking into Dean's eyes as he does so, as though whatever he's just said is really important. Well, hell, at least Sam isn't yelling or crying; Dean needs to keep this moment.

"Yes, Sir." He's being good, he's agreeing.

"Dean."

Raised eyebrows, pointed stare – _crap._

"Yes, Sam," Dean quickly amends and Sam gives Dean a smile that just doesn't look _right_. It looks like the smiles Robby used to give him when he would come back from one of Edwin's 'special' lessons. All mouth but no eyes and no heart – an empty smile.

"Don't worry," Dean explains solemnly. "This is my fault; I'll take your punishment."

"Like you were going to do before?" Sam asks and Dean nods half-heartedly, staring at his own feet to avoid Sam's eyes; fuck this is _embarrassing_.

"Dean..."

Sam's tone makes Dean look up again and he's relieved to see a _real _smile there. Oh God, he's turning into such a _girl_ here. He wants Sam to watch his back for a few hours, not like make out with him or anything!

"Yeah?" He makes his voice sound extra gravelly to compensate for his previous thought. This 'brother' stuff is so damned weird.

"Thanks."

"I didn't take it yet," Dean shrugs with a humourless laugh. "You can thank me when I'm bleeding."

Sam shudders at this and Dean's secretly glad. Sam will _definitely_ owe him one after this. Having someone in his debt is a good, if rare, position for a bait to be in, totally worth a few broken ribs and a couple more scars.

"There's not gonna _be _any punishment, Dean," Sam explains and Dean automatically nods, even though he's wondering how fucking _blind _Sam must be; they _fought _John, argued with him, Dean even drew _blood_, they're chained to the bed head and Sam thinks they're not gonna be punished?

"But still," Sam smiles again. "Thanks."

"You're..." Dean's words feel awkward in his mouth. It's like they don't quite fit, but for once in his life, Dean _knows _this is the right thing to say. Or at least, this is what Sam wants to hear. And if Dean tells Sam what he wants to hear, then maybe, just maybe, Sam might start to like him.

"You're welcome...Little Brother."

* * *

Sam wants to reply to Dean, really he does, but there's a buzzing in his ears that's so damned distracting he can't think of the words. Not to mention how muffled his brother's voice is. Sam's not entirely sure what he's even replying to.

But he _does _want to ask why Dean's face is so blurry and maybe see if his brother can figure out why he's suddenly got pins and needles in his arms and at the back of his head.

And yet, for some reason, when he opens his mouth, he finds himself merely groaning in pain. It's only _then_ that his sluggish mind registers the sharp explosions of agony behind his eyes and he screws his eyes shut, as if _that's _going to make it stop.

And if his eyes are closed, why can he still see? What's Jim doing there when Sam shouldn't be able to see anything? And Dean's friend - Sam's head hurts so much he can't remember the kid's name, but he's more interested in what the heck the boy is doing there, anyway, than knowing his name.

Jim and the blonde kid - Robby, that's it. Why are they just standing there? Sam feels another stab of pain and the world around him comes gradually into focus, Jim and Robby aren't just suspended in the dark, they're in a house...Jim's house.

Sam can hear gunshots; Dean might be in danger! He needs to open his eyes and snap out of this but, try as he might, he just can't stop watching the scene in front of him.

_Help us! _he screams to Jim and the boy, but they don't respond.

There's an unfamiliar voice screaming and Sam can only feel relief that it isn't Dean because he _needs_to see his brother and he doesn't know how to find his way out of this world in his head.

And then that world becomes tinted red and he gets treated to a close-up of a bullet ripping through flesh that he _really_ doesn't appreciate and...God, what the hell is happening to him?! He doesn't want to see this!

"_Sam!" _

Dean? Dean's in his head, too?

"Open your eyes, Sam."

They are open, aren't they? Sam reaches blindly for his own face to check and panics briefly at the fact that he can only move one of his arms. The ensuing activation of his survival instincts is enough to force his eyes open as he tries to take stock of his situation.

"Dean?" The young hunter can barely make out his brother's form as he squints in the light. He blinks rapidly, the pain slowly beginning to ebb away, and he can see that Dean is close to him, or as close as the handcuffs will allow. Dean voluntarily going near him – that's gotta be a record.

And...hang on...handcuffs? Shit...Robby, Dean, Dad, bed. The events of the last couple of hours come crashing back into Sam's brain with enough force to give him a headache all over again.

"Are you okay?" Dean's almost-gentle voice is a welcome relief from the harshness of Sam's own thoughts.

"Yeah...no..." Sam runs his free hand through his hair and tries to pull his broken thoughts together into something coherent. "Yeah, I'm good."

Sam can almost _feel _Dean's eyes sweep over him before his older brother nods, seemingly satisfied that Sam's telling the truth, and then he drops back to a less intimate distance.

"Was that a..."

Dean seems hesitant to finish his sentence and Sam doesn't need him to. What _else _is Dean gonna be referring to?

"Yeah," he nods reluctantly, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Yeah, it was."

"What did you see?"

Sam can't decide whether or not it's a good thing that Dean doesn't seem at all phased by the fact that his brother is having visions of the future. _Visions_of the freaking _future_! What the hell?!

"Sam?" Dean says again.

"Sorry," Sam answers, squeezing the bridge of his nose for a few seconds as he tries to calm down. "Just freaking out a little bit here, Dean," Sam laughs, even though there's nothing to laugh about.

"Well...stop it." Dean looks pissed off, and a little confused. "What's the point in doing that?"

Oh yeah, that's _so _what Sam wants to hear right now.

"Thanks a lot, Dean," Sam sighs, rolling his eyes and shifting away from his older brother in annoyance.

"I-I'm..."

Sam's ready to forgive his brother before the older man even starts his apology. Man, there's not even really anything to forgive. How can he expect his brother to know how to act with compassion and sympathy when Dean's never experienced anything of the sort since he was four years old? If anything, _he _should be asking for _Dean's _forgiveness; he shouldn't have snapped at his older brother.

It's only when Dean's mouth twists into a smirk that Sam thinks he might have been getting ahead of himself even expecting an apology.

"You're welcome."

Is his brother really just being a sarcastic ass or is he hiding his emotions behind that cocky exterior, as usual? Sam doesn't have the emotional energy left to find out; after all, he's just stopped Dean from beating up Dad only to be humiliated and handcuffed to a bed by him, and on top of all that crap, he has 'visions' to deal with - counselling his screwed-up big brother is really_ not _something he's in the mood to handle right now.

"Sam? Sir? I mean...just Sam?"

The sound of Dean's tentative tone is enough to cajole Sam out of his bad mood. He's sulking because Dean's acting like a jerk, like big brothers are _supposed _to do, when really he should be celebrating. Now he's just fucked up Dean's attempt at normality and they're back to 'Sir'.

"Yeah?" What the hell, it's not like he can make things any _worse_.

"You can hit me, if you want."

Or then again, maybe they can get worse...a _lot _worse. He'd thought they were past this.

"No, Dean. You're my brother." Dean won't meet his eyes. Shit.

"I won't fight you," Dean promises and the sight of the older man's wavering attempt at a reassuring smile makes Sam sick to his stomach.

"Dean..."

Sam closes the gap he'd created between them earlier, shuffling along the bed until the miniscule slack of the handcuffs stops him, as though being half a foot closer to his brother is going to make him understand the guy better. He can see the way Dean subconsciously leans away from him, although his brother doesn't physically move away. Sam can't help but wonder what Dean must have gone through to voluntarily sit next to someone who he's convinced is about to hit him.

"I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to..."

_To what? To make you think I was going to punish you for not putting up with me bitching and complaining?_

"It's okay, Sam."

And just why the heck is Dean trying to make _him _feel better? Shouldn't it be the other way around? And how on Earth is this in any way 'okay'?

"I deserve it," Dean assures him and now Sam really _does _want to hit the older man. Hit him until he finally gets it into his head that _nobody_has a right to abuse him the way Edwin and Walker and all those other bastards did, that he doesn't deserve, has _never _deserved, _anyone_ hitting him.

_Yeah...cuz that idea totally makes sense._

"No. You don't." And Sam really can't put it any clearer than that. If only Dean would believe him…


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: Hi guys, I'm sorry it's been a while. As some of you know, I've moved back to university and, as some of you won't know, my brother is getting married on Saturday so I've been really busy. On top of that, smokeyhorse moved house too so she's also been dead busy, a big thank you to her for betaing this chapter.**

There is a lot of Dean abuse in this chapter as well as self-harm (like, more than just cutting), references to child abuse so, yeah, be warned but enjoy.

Chapter Twenty Eight

"Scrap, please. It's just rice."

As Pastor Jim Murphy stares at the skinny runt of a boy in front of him, he can safely say that he has never empathized with John Winchester more than he has today.

"No."

It's hard to even hear the boy over the sound of his grumbling stomach. Jim really doesn't want to argue with the traumatized boy, not when they've only just met and he wants the boy to feel as safe as possible, but…he can hardly let the boy starve right in front of him!

"Son, you need to eat something." Jim can't understand it. Dean probably would have snatched the food from him and eaten it in the blink of an eye by now.

_This isn't Dean_, he reminds himself.

"I don't want it."

Heavens above, does the kid think Jim can't _see _the longing in his eyes as he tracks the proffered plate? That piercing gaze hasn't looked anywhere else since the food appeared; Jim's never seen anybody want anything so badly in his life.

"But you _need _it."

"Please leave me alone." Lord, the boy is nearly crying because Jim wants to give him some _food_? Jim can't understand it, can't understand anything about the kid.

"Alright, I'm sorry." Jim admits defeat and places the plate of rice on the coffee table. "I didn't mean to upset you."

The boy doesn't look up, although his eyes still flicker occasionally to the food. His pale hands are trembling in his lap and after a few seconds, he shifts position until he's sitting on them, a look of solemn, miserable determination on his face.

Jim sighs and eases himself down onto the coffee table. "Okay, Scrap, I'm an old man…"

Jim almost thinks he might have seen a smile flicker at the kid's lips for a second. Another look at the boy's dejected expression and Jim thinks he might be going crazy; that is _not _the face of a happy, smiling young man.

"So you might need to explain things to me a little. Can you do that?"

Robby pauses for a second and then nods warily. "Yes, Sir."

"Now if _I_ hadn't eaten for a long time, I'd sure want some rice. That makes sense doesn't it?"

Robby seems to think for a minute before nodding. "Yes Sir."

Jim simply raises his eyebrows, hoping the boy will pick up on the hint to continue. When he _does_, his answer is mumbled so quietly that Jim can only hear one word.

"…sick."

"You feel sick?" That's not too surprising, Jim contemplates; the boy's stomach has been empty for a long time and supernatural healing is no substitute for a good meal.

"Don't want to…"

"You don't _want _to feel sick?" Jim questions tentatively. This would be so much easier if only the kid would say more than three or four words to him at a time.

"'Sir." A tiny, timid nod that breaks Jim's heart.

"This food is fresh, Scrap." Well…as fresh as post-'Gate world rations can be. "It's safe. It won't make you sick."

The boy squints at Jim for a second, rubs his eyes and then stares again. He looks confused and the pastor doesn't know if it's the idea of safe food or something else entirely that's earned him this intense scrutiny.

"I…" The kid glances down at the floor briefly before looking back up with a petulant scowl. "I ain't seeing you eat it."

"I made this for you," Jim explains, refusing to be swayed by the boy's spark of temper. "_Especially _for you."

"Yeah." Robby glares at him sullenly and Jim can't for the life of him understand why he deserves the hurt look the boy is giving him. "That's what I thought."

* * *

"You saw him get shot?"

Dean's eyes are shimmering with a multitude of emotions that he's too well trained to let show on his face and Sam can _feel _the desperation in his brother's stare.

"Yes, no..." Dean's intensity is making him nervous. "I don't know. I saw _someone _get shot, I don't who it was."

"_You'd_ be fucking shot if Edwin heard you give that report," Dean sighs irritably, and frighteningly, Sam has no idea if he's joking or not.

"I just...I dunno, Dean – what do you want me to say here? We're cuffed to a bed for crying out loud! It's not like there's anything we can do about it!"

Sam knows he's lashing out, knows that it's not really Dean's fault that he expects everyone to know about 'visions' and that he treats being chained up by someone as a pretty normal occurrence, but God, Sam so doesn't appreciate being judged like this.

"I gotta go save him," Dean declares with a nervous determination that takes the edge off Sam's brief burst of anger. How can he be mad at Dean when the guy is finally showing some vulnerability?

But still... "Newsflash, Dean." Sam gestures to the band of metal around his wrist. "We aren't going anywhere."

Dean heaves an annoyed sigh, glaring first at Sam, then at the bed, and finally, at the cuffs. "Dammit."

"Dad will be –."

"Fuck 'Dad'!" Dean scowls mockingly. "He's the one who put us here in the first place!"

God, why is it that Sam has to defend their father's actions to Dean when Dad should be doing it himself? How is Sam supposed to rationalize their dad's actions when he can't even begin to imagine what's going through the man's head? Somehow, Sam doesn't imagine that Dean will be too welcoming of the idea of 'blind trust'.

"Dean -."

"He's probably gonna shoot Robby. Did you see him? John? Was he there in your vision? "

"No, no and no, Dean," Sam sighs wearily. "Dad's not going to shoot anybody, _especially _not a friend of yours."

"He shot Edwin," Dean counters, his tone emotionless.

"You class Edwin as your friend?" Sam replies, trying to match Dean's attitude. Dean _wants _him to lose his temper, to prove Dean right. But Dad's not a cold-blooded killer. Edwin deserved to die - he _had _to die, didn't he? Dad's one of the good guys...right?

"He was more of a father to me than John," Dean retorts with a shrug, and at that moment, Sam's never longed for his father more. Sure his Dad has been - _is being_ - an ass, but _Dean's _father figure was the cruellest, most malicious man Sam's ever heard of. Their father might be a guilt-ridden, emotional wreck at the moment, but that's so much better than the cold, loveless neglect that was Dean's experience of a 'father figure'.

"Dad will be back soon," Sam reassures himself as much as Dean. "Then we can have some food and talk things through."

He hopes the offer of food will be enough to ease some of Dean's panic about their father's return. If Dean can associate something other than an imaginary beating with Dad coming home, then it might make the reunion go a little smoother.

"He said he'd be a couple of hours," Dean replies thoughtfully.

Sam nods in response. Is this Dean _agreeing_ or _arguing_ with him? His brother's face is devoid of the scowl that has haunted his features since Dad rejected his request to visit Robby, but in its place isn't the nervous, hopeful smile that had accompanied Dean's attempt at cheering Sam up. Instead there's a quiet, contemplative expression that Sam can't decipher.

"Sam?"

But there's no mistaking _that_. _That _is Dean's 'Please don't hit me sir, I know I'm not allowed to ask questions, but...' voice.

In Sam's experience, his brother's questions are usually unsettling enough to make Sam's stomach churn for hours afterwards. But the fact that Dean trusts him enough to ask is enough to persuade Sam to answer; if he can take away even a little of Dean's pain, even for the brief moment it takes for Dean to share it, then it's worth the ensuing nightmares.

"Yeah?"

"Is two hours a long time?"

And that's disturbing in a way that Sam's never experienced before. He knows Dean, having never experienced anything other than anger, fear and loneliness, has problems understanding emotions. And that's only one of the multitude of issues that inevitably develop after two decades of social and emotional deprivation. Now he finds out Dean has some kind of difficulty with his time perception; once again, he's in awe of how Dean, after all he's been through and all he's still going through, can manage to function at _all_, let alone make any sort of positive progress.

If no one ever bothered to teach Dean the concept of seconds and minutes, Sam supposes it makes sense that Dean wouldn't have any frame of reference. On top of that, Dean was locked underground in the dark for most of his life with no sort of regular sleeping pattern, and most likely, spent far too much time unconscious to be healthy. Depriving a person of time tense is one of the first methods of torture and when Sam considers Dean's upbringing, it seems sickeningly fitting. The only surprising thing is that Sam didn't think of it sooner.

But awe isn't going to help Dean with his issues; it's going to take time and patience and...Sam doesn't even know. How on Earth do you begin helping someone as damaged as Dean?

"It's...it's not too long," he shrugs. How do you simplify something as complicated as time? "120 minutes." And Dean _might _understand if he converted that into seconds, but he's still a little freaked out by recent events to be doing math.

When Sam looks back to Dean, he can tell he's not the only one freaking out. Dean's shifted his position so that he's seated up against the headboard, pressing his knees close to his chest and hunching protectively over them. To see Dean reverting to that defensive position is a little jarring, but Sam takes comfort from the realization that this is now a somewhat rare position for his brother and that Dean no longer feels the need to act so defensively all the time.

"When we get out of here, we'll get you a nice watch," Sam smiles, keeping his voice light in an attempt to stop Dean from sliding back into his dark memories and thoughts.

Dean gives a reluctant half shrug. "No point."

The elder man won't even look in his brother's direction, let alone _at _him.

"I don't know how to make sense of them."

"Well, I'll teach you. We can get you a digital one." Sam's actually smiling for real now, knowing how much Dean appreciates new possessions. There are plenty of digital watches left over from the army uniforms - one of the advantages of living in a camp built around an ex-army base.

"Can't teach me, I wouldn't get it." Dean replies sullenly, staring intensely at his toes.

Sam sighs quietly to himself. He suspects that were Dean not so weary, he would have been told to fuck off long before now. As it is, Dean seems too worn out to muster his usual feisty defensive shield and Sam's relieved because he's too worn out to deal with it.

"You saying I'm a bad teacher?" he jokes and Dean shakes his head before shrugging again. Sam can tell he's treading a thin line here, and when the balance tips, Dean's either going to open up or close himself off.

Do they really have time to talk like this when Jim could be in trouble? Probably not, but on the other hand, there's nothing they can do about it chained to the bed like this, and anything that takes Dean's mind off Robby is a good thing.

"'S my fault," Dean replies quietly, seemingly not picking up on Sam's joviality. "'S always my fault."

Sam tries unsuccessfully to meet Dean's eyes, but even without seeing his brother's expression, the younger Winchester knows that Dean is being completely honest. His brother really does believe what he's saying and that's just heartbreaking; how the hell did Edwin think he had the right to fill Dean's head with lies and destroy his confidence?

"Did anyone ever teach you?" Sam asks, trying to keep his anger at Edwin out of his voice because he knows Dean will misinterpret the target of his fury.

"Sometimes..." Dean replies quietly, the hollow tone of his voice matched only by the haunted look in his eyes. "When I was little...after training he'd bring me to his office..."

Sam doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until he feels a tight pain in his chest. Unfortunately, the pain doesn't ease when he exhales. Is this what it feels like when your heart breaks?

"He had books - big, heavy books. The writing was small...real small and it was so dark in there."

God, Sam can _picture _the scene and he hates his imagination for it.

"I didn't know the words, Sam, I didn't...I was trying, I promise I was trying, but I didn't understand. He'd ask me to read, keep me up all night till I got it right...I was so tired Sam and I just...I couldn't..."

"It's ok, Dean...it wasn't your fault," Sam soothes. He can see Dean tensing up as he panics, worry over Sam's reaction and the fear of his memories working him up into a tense ball of nerves.

"It was...I was dumb, I got it wrong all the time and then he'd have to punish me."

Sam doesn't miss the terms that Dean's using. _'He'd __**have**__ to punish me.' _No wonder his big brother is always blaming himself – Edwin raised him to believe that he deserved everything he got. How could any child deserve what that bastard did to Dean?

"He'd hit me, just take a book and slam it into the back of my head. Or he'd make me hold my hands on the desk and then he'd drop a book on them; it'd usually break my fingers and I couldn't turn the pages and that would make him madder and..."

Dean seems to run out of steam at that, although he _finally _turns to look at his younger brother. The expression on his face is one of self-deprecation, but there's a stubborn, defiant gleam in his eyes; Sam can tell his brother didn't explain this for sympathy or to share his pain – Dean was simply explaining his point and Sam expects that the idea of sympathy or comfort as a consequence hasn't even crossed the older man's mind.

"I couldn't even learn how to read, Sam, let alone tell the time."

"Dean, you were a _child_!" Sam exclaims. "You were hurt and exhausted and scared - no one can learn like that!"

"You did," Dean counters. "You learned, everyone else in the fucking camp learned. I'm just fucking dumb bait. You'd be wasting your time and I ain't going through it again, Sam."

Then Dean pales and _really _looks at Sam.

"Sam...please, please don't put me through it again. I just...please, I can hunt. I can be bait without knowing how to do all that stuff."

"Dean, I won't hurt you. Normal people don't teach like Edwin." Sam can tell that Dean struggles to imagine any other sort of life than the one he'd managed to survive. Once this mess with Dad and Robby blows over, he'll have to show Dean the real world; maybe _then _Dean will finally realize that the way he was treated was completely unacceptable.

"But if you don't want to learn, it's fine. No one's going to force you." Sam really doesn't know if Dean is comfortable enough to accept any help from him, or if the older man feels safe enough to put himself in a position where he might 'fail' and risk Sam's 'punishment', so he definitely doesn't want Dean to feel coerced into anything. He hopes that by giving Dean some sort of control over the situation, the guy will feel somewhat safer.

"Would...would John let me learn?" Dean asks tentatively. "Edwin said I'm not worth..."

Sam watches as Dean bites down on his bottom lip, cutting off his sentence, but he doesn't press for details - Dean's relived enough of his past for now.

"Dad would love to help you, Dean, and he'll be really proud of you," Sam smiles.

Dean falters at this, staring at his toes before nodding, just the once, but it's enough. So Dean's hardly delighted about the idea of spending an extended period of time with Dad - that's understandable - but at least he hasn't rejected the idea flat out. The idea of being something more than bait must be pretty tempting for Dean to put himself in that position.

"How long has he been gone now?" The edge is back in Dean's voice, worry creeping into the undertones.

"I don't know," Sam answers honestly. "An hour maybe." hhH

"You should have another vision, see what's happening," Dean suggests and Sam frowns. What exactly _does _Dean know about these visions and how they work?

"I can't just switch them on and off," he explains. This time there's no irritation in his voice; Dean's quiet little insight into his childhood still has him reeling with sympathy for his brother. "They just...kinda...happen." He shrugs.

"Sam, I...we...I gotta go to help Robby. I can't wait another hour or whatever." Dean sounds on the verge of snapping and Sam can't blame him. The cuff around Sam's wrist feels more oppressive with every passing minute.

"We don't have a choice, Dean. And besides, it's just a vision. It might not even come true."

"The last one did," Dean protests. "I can't chance it, Sam, and besides, we gotta get out of these cuffs."

"We _will _be as soon as Dad comes back," Sam says placatingly as his brother eyes the handcuffs critically. Sam doesn't know _what _Dean could be planning, but whatever it is, he has a feeling it won't be good.

"Don't you get it, Sam? We can't wait that long!" Dean exclaims as he dramatically rips a strip of material from his shirt.

"My last vision saw almost half a day into the future," Sam counters calmly, masking his rising panic. He has no idea why Dean just tore one of his t-shirts, but he can't believe it's simply emotion causing the unusual behaviour – Dean usually has his emotions behind an airtight seal, and besides, Dean's clothes, shoes and amulet are the only things he owns and the guy is so protective of them that Sam's sure it must be something pretty important that would make him damage them. "Why are you so certain this is going to happen soon?"

"Because these people don't fuck around, Sam – they never do. If it's Edwin's gang back for Robby or me, then they ain't gonna be playing games. You're friend's aren;t gonna knows that's hit 'em. " Dean explains earnestly, ripping another strip from his shirt, this time from his sleeve.

"Sam, please, I know I'm just bait, but I _do _know these people. I grew up around them, Sam, and they'll shoot Robby, or Jim, or your Dad and -."

"_Our_ Dad," Sam corrects, not knowing why that's so important to him.

"Whatever, Sam - they'll shoot him all the same! And then, when he's on the floor, they'll dig their thumbs into the wound, gouge it and twist it until it burns so much he can't stop screaming."

Sam feels sick already, and judging by the feverish gleam of panic and fear in the other man's eyes, Dean's only just getting started.

"Then they'll drag him away, take him down to a cell. And then, if it's a clean wound away from his organs, they'll stick a bar through it and use it to pin him to the wall - they got bolts and holes and stuff just for shit like that."

Sam swallows past the lump in his throat; he doesn't, not even for a second, doubt what Dean is saying.

"He'll want to sleep, Sam. He'll be so tired and it'll be dark and they'll just keep asking him questions, even if he doesn't know the answer. And...and when he tries to sleep that-that fucking bar will jar and tear and he'll bleed and scream cuz it hurts so much. An - and if he gets sick from infection they _might _give him a drink if he begs, and he'll beg, Sam, he _will _beg."

Dean's trembling now; Sam can hear the cuff rattling against the iron headboard. Looking at Dean's wide-eyed, bright stare, it's clear that the older Winchester can only be speaking from experience.

"God..._Dean_..."

Imagining his father, or Jim, or even that Robby kid who he barely knows, in that position is horrifying enough for the youngest Winchester - knowing that Dean, in all likelihood, has already been through that...Sam shudders at the thought of what he'll learn of Dean's past when the man _willingly _opens up to him about it.

"You see, Sam? We have to go."

"Right," Sam nods determinedly, but, although he doesn't want to sound like a broken record, he can't help but glance at the handcuff around his wrist.

"I need a cinderblock," Dean announces, looking expectantly at the makeshift table and its cinderblock 'legs' on Sam's side of the bed.

_Well_, Sam sighs internally as he hands one over – dislodging the surface of the table and being careful not to spill any of the water as he does so. _Maybe 'please' would be a bit too much to ask for under the circumstances._

"'K, thanks." A pained smile flickers across Dean's face as he takes the block in his free hand.

"Dean...what? What're you doing with that?"

Why, only now, when Dean's positioning the brick on top of his cuffed hand, does Sam wonder what Dean might have wanted with a cinderblock?

"I don't think the cuffs will break," Sam supplies as Dean extends his arm experimentally - Dad never does do anything half-heartedly when it comes to hunting, after all.

"It's ok, as long as _something_ breaks," Dean assures him with a shrug and Sam pales...if he wasn't freaking out _before _then he sure as hell is _now_.

"What do you - Dean? What are you doing?" Sam can't seem to stop babbling as Dean takes the strip of material from his shirt and balls it into his mouth, effectively gagging himself.

Dean simply nods his head in the direction of the brick, which is resting along part of his forearm, wrist and thumb joint, and mumbles around the gag something that sounds like 'whole fat' but most likely is an instruction to 'hold that'.

Sam's too freaked to argue and he places his hand on the block without question, despite the alarm bells in his brain letting him know that this is so, **so **_not _a good idea.

"Afuh!" Dean mumbles, shooting him an irritated glance. Sam presses down harder on the brick, even though there's a fair chance that it might not have been what Dean wanted at all. He was probably asking for some guy named Arthur or something. Why the heck has Dean gagged himself? Or at least why the heck couldn't he have told Sam the plan _before _he gagged himself?

And then Sam's questions are replaced by a sickening 'pop' and 'crunch' that echo in his head. His gasp of horror and shock is loud enough to drown out Dean's muffled scream of pain and his heart is thumping so loudly that he doesn't hear the sound of cement clattering against iron as the now blood-spotted cinderblock falls harmlessly onto the bed between them.

Dean's scream is far too short and quiet to be a true indication of the pain he must be in. Sam feels sick just looking at the mangled mess that is Dean's hand. How could his brother have done that to himself? How could Sam have taken _part_?!

"Christ! Dean!" Sam's voice is several octaves higher than normal and his eyes, glued to the sight of Dean's dislocated thumb hanging awkward and useless at the edge of the older Winchester's hand. He doesn't even want to think about the flash of white that he's sure he glimpsed.

Dean groans as he spits out the gag. The older man's face is pale, far too pale, but his eyes are shimmering with a fiery determination that lets Sam forget, for a brief second at least, that Dean just dislocated, and probably fractured, his own thumb (with a little help from his younger brother).

"Well, Sam." Dean's smile wavers as his thumb folds unnaturally sideways into the palm of his hand and the cuff slides easily off his wrist.

"Let's go to Jim's."

* * *


	29. Chapter 29

**AN: Hi everyone. Sorry about the delay; my beta has been really busy lately, like Iwould be if Iwas actually _doing _my work instead of writing fanfic. As a warning, there's some flashbacks to some Dean!torture in this chapter **

Chapter Twenty Nine

It doesn't take Dean long to adjust to only having one working hand; after all, it's been less than a month since his _other _hand was broken. If this keeps up, he's going to be pretty fucked. Hopefully Robby will be able to help him out before he runs out of fingers to break.

His vision swims a little when he reaches up for the first aid kit and he has to concentrate on not blacking out for a minute before he can focus on finding the needle he's looking for – the same needle that stitched closed the gash in his head.

_John did that_, Dean reminds himself as he feels a bizarre pang of...of what? What does it matter anyway? Just because John didn't cut his rations or the amount of time he's allowed to sleep it doesn't mean the guy didn't have an ulterior motive, doesn't mean that Dean's punishment isn't still to come.

Still, maybe if Dean keeps him from getting shot, the guy might go a little easier on him. Then again, he's sure the punishment for breaking his own thumb - damaging John's property - is going to be nothing short of brutal.

Well, Dean figures he can't complain. After all, he hasn't had the shit beaten out of him for about a month now, so he's more than due for a beating. If anything, it'll be a relief to get the waiting over with.

Once that's out of the way and John thinks that Dean's been punished enough, maybe they'll try the whole 'telling time' thing.

Not that Dean cares whether they do that or not. They probably won't anyway, Sam's probably just lying to him; as if John's gonna take time out from his day to teach a dumb bait something normal people know how to do. Fuck 'em anyway, Dean doesn't care. He doesn't fucking care. Not one bit. He doesn't even _want _to learn how to do the dumb time thing. He doesn't _want _a stupid frickin' watch.

...He **doesn't.**

_You don't_, he reminds himself.

"I don't." It doesn't sound any more convincing when he says it out loud.

"Dean? Man, you okay?"

Oh, shit...he's supposed to be doing something in here. Something important...

"Dean?!"

Oh. Yeah...Sam. Handcuffs. Dean shakes his head a little to try and get his thoughts back on track. Kind of hard when the mangled mess that was his thumb is throbbing mercilessly as it dangles loosely in the socket, in case, by some chance, he might have managed to forget how much it fucking hurts.

"Uh..." What's he supposed to be thinking about? Not his hand. He can't mention his hand, not to his owner...what's his name? S...something...Sam. Not to Sam, not unless he wants even more pain.

"_**Aw, what's the matter Bait? You hurting?"**_

_**At thirteen years old, Dean knows that his answer should be 'no, Sir', knows that his pain doesn't matter, knows that what's important is being a good bait and doing as he's told. **_

_**But...it does hurt! It really does and he can't stop himself from nodding. He can't swallow down the feeble "yes, Sir" that slips from his lips, either. **_

_**Through his watery eyes he can see the torchlight glinting off the dull metal of the key in Edwin's hand. The thought of that hand slipping the key into the cuff around his swollen ankle, the thought of a break from the inescapable metal of the cuff that constantly digs into his bruised, bloody flesh is enough to have him begging before he's even been ordered to.**_

"_**Please..."**_

"_**One more chance, Bait," Edwin warns him coldly. Through his tears, Dean can make out his owner's disappointed, irritated expression. "Give me the right answer and thirty minutes from now I'll let you go."**_

_**But Dean can't last for however long that is; can't last another second like this. It's not possible to hurt so much for so long and still be alive, it can't be. He has to try to get Edwin to let him go now. He just can't put himself through this pain any longer.**_

"_**...hurts." He doesn't even remember deciding to say the word, but it slips from his lips regardless.**_

"_**Oh, too bad, Bait," Edwin sneers as he crouches down on the floor until he's level with Dean's slumped body and dangles the key just beyond the reach of the ankle chain tying Dean to the wall. "That wasn't the right answer." **_

_**Edwin brushes himself off as he stands back up. Dean watches as the man stretches and rotates his ankles with a satisfied sigh. **_

"_**Let's try again in an hour," he sighs over the sound of Dean's pitiful whimpering. **_

_**And as the cell door slams shut behind his owner, Dean cries the few tears he has left.**_

_**Two hours later, pale-faced and trembling with shock, Dean finally learns that his pain really doesn't matter; no matter how much he hurts, no one is going to help him. Not even whoever promised him all those years ago that they would find him, especially not that person. No one cares when he's in pain. No one came to do anything about it, even though the whole camp must have heard his screams of agony (back when his voice wasn't so hoarse from screaming), so it obviously doesn't matter to anyone. His pain isn't something to be acknowledged, not by the camp, not by Edwin, not even by himself. **_

_**So, when Edwin crouches down next to him again and presses down on the misshapen, purple lump that used to be his ankle joint, Dean whimpers only on reflex and still answers "no, Sir" when the man asks him if he's too hurt to work. **_

_**He almost can't stop the sob of despair that bubbles in his throat when Edwin walks away, but he bites on his lower lip and stifles his cry to a quiet moan that his owner thankfully doesn't hear.**_

_**Thirty minutes later, Dean's barely even aware that Edwin is guffawing with laughter as he tells Dean he can 'walk free'. All he can feel is the blood trickling down his ankle onto the concrete and the strange feeling of numb despair that washes over him every time Edwin destroys another little piece of his humanity. **_

_Pull yourself together, _Dean orders himself sharply as he finally finds what he's looking for.

Huh, that's kinda funny. Yeah - 'pull himself together', put his hand back into one piece, that's what he needs to do. That's funny because it's not what he meant.

"Dean!" Sam looks relieved and that's weird because Dean doesn't remember walking back to the bedroom.

"Are you alright?"

Dean doesn't really know. Is he alright? He's conscious and on his feet and _one _of his hands is working. His ribs are still bruised, though, and then there's the wreck of blood and bone that is his thumb socket – Dean _so _doesn't want to go there.

But, despite his pain and the feeling of nausea swirling around in the pit of his stomach, Dean knows the answer he's expected to give. Knows it all too well. The young man shudders at the recent memory and tries to persuade his sluggish brain to focus on the task at hand.

"Yes, Sir."

He tries to stop his hand from trembling as he crawls up the bed until he's kneeling next to the headboard and working the needle intricately into the locking mechanism of Sam's cuffs. He's aware of the younger man's eyes on him and he tries not to panic too much – he's trying as hard as he can. It just takes time to find the right spot.

"Dean..." Sam sounds upset and Dean shudders.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm going as quickly as I can. I've almost - "

_There!_ Dean smiles tentatively as the needle catches in the cuff and the metal ring slips open with a 'snick'.

"Thanks, Dean. I..."

Dean nods in agreement and tries to remember why Sam was cuffed to the bed in the first place. He's not aware that he's swaying until Sam steadies him as he pitches to the side and suddenly his younger brother's face has gone from calm and thankful to really, really mad.

"Dean, shit, man, what were you thinking?" Sam's pinching the bridge of his nose with his newly released hand.

"Sit down," he orders and Dean obeys, even if he's pretty sure that there's something important they should be doing right now.

What had he been thinking? "Escape," he answers honestly and Sam runs a hand through his hair.

The younger man doesn't look pleased with Dean's answer; fuck, he should've just apologized instead of trying to explain himself. He's obviously screwed up, as usual, and now Sam is pissed with him. Great.

...His hand hurts.

"You just...you...your thumb, Dean! Look at your thumb!"

Dean really doesn't _want _to look, the sight makes him feel kind of sick, but he doesn't want Sam even madder at him, so he glances down at his hand and tries to assess the damage. He doesn't have to look far. The jagged edge of white bone poking through his skin is easy enough to spot and the awkward angle of the appendage is so obviously _wrong _that it makes Dean's stomach churn. And after spending twenty years as bait and as a punching bag for Jeremy Edwin, not a lot makes Dean's stomach churn.

"Dean? Dean?" Sam's tapping the side of his face and when the hell did the guy move close enough to do that?

"Dean, you're in shock," Sam states firmly and Dean frowns. If anyone's acting shocked, it's not him, it's Sam. And why are they still sitting down? Weren't they supposed to be doing...something? Dean's sure they're meant to be doing something.

But Sam _is _doing stuff, only Dean can't quite concentrate enough to tell exactly _what_.

"Lie down," the younger man orders, and even as he obeys, Dean can't help but protest.

"But –."

"Dean, you're in shock. You're in no shape to walk all the way to Pastor Jim's," Sam insists and Dean tries not to glower as he tracks his brother's movement out of the corner of his eyes.

Right, Jim's - _that's _where they have to go. Dean remembers now.

"Robby's there!" Dean remembers suddenly, fighting the urge to sit up again. "Sam! Sam, Robby's there - if we go, he can fix my hand before John sees and then he won't punish me for it and -."

"Punish you?" Sam finally stops moving at that and sits down on the bed beside Dean. In his hand is a coarse blanket that he drapes over his brother's trembling body; Dean's grateful that the younger man ensures that the material doesn't make any contact with his hand, his hand which, for the record, really fucking hurts.

"Dean, Dad's not gonna punish you," Sam tells him as he manoeuvres Dean's legs until they're resting on top of a tower of pillows. What the hell is Sam doing to him? They don't have time for this, although...it really is comfortable. If Dean wasn't so well trained he could fall asleep right here.

"He's gonna be mad," Dean argues, because even though he knows Sam loves John, he's not sure the younger man really understands what a bastard their 'father' is.

Then again, Sam wasn't the one sold as fucking bait when he was four years old, so maybe it's only Dean who deserves to be mistreated by John. God...if he could only go back in time and tell his child-self not to do whatever it was that made John want to sell him, then maybe...ah, what the fuck does it matter? The past is the past and Dean can't do anything about it.

"He's going to be mad because you hurt yourself," Sam admits and Dean nods solemnly.

"I damaged his property," the older man agrees and Sam shakes his head.

"Dean, he's not gonna care about some dumb handcuffs and his lame-ass table." Sam's smiling, even though his expression is one of caution and worry.

"Not the table," Dean mumbles quietly, glancing away from Sam as he gives his explanation. "Me."

"What do...Dean...Oh, God..." Sam's standing up again and Dean's starting to feel dizzy from watching him. In fact, he feels pretty dizzy right now, anyway, even when he closes his eyes.

"Dean, you're not Dad's property! You're not anyone's property."

"If I wasn't his property then how the fuck could he **sell** me, huh?" Dean scowls, turning his head sharply to glare at his brother.

"But, Dean he didn't -."

But Dean's pissed now and he doesn't want to listen to Sam's lies. He's bait, he knows that's who – no, _what_ - he is; it's all he knows how to be. He's bait, he's nothing - he's had that fucking lesson drummed into him every week for twenty fucking years by every hunter he's ever met and now Sam expects him to just believe that was all lies because the Winchesters say otherwise?

_Fuck the Winchesters_, Dean screams internally as he throws off the dumb blanket and struggles back into a sitting position. Standing might be a bit much right now as his legs seem to have decided to turn to useless, rubbery limbs from his hips down.

"How do you _know_, Sam?" Dean questions harshly. His thumb is throbbing even worse now with his agitated heart rate, but what does a little pain matter to him? He's been over this once today already. No one cares if he's hurt, not even the apparent hero that, according to his little brother, is John Winchester.

"You were a baby. You weren't_ there_; all you know is what he told you."

Fuck, he will not cry. Even though his hand hurts and he can't stop shaking and he's cold and his friend's gonna get shot and Sam won't believe that John's a bastard who sold his own son into slavery, Dean won't cry.

"Dad **wouldn't **sell one of his own sons to a bastard like Edwin," Sam declares stubbornly and Dean smirks.

"Yeah, he wouldn't sell _one _of his sons, Sam – you. He wouldn't sell **you **into slavery. He had no fucking problem doing it to me."

_Why _won't Sam believe him? Why can't Sam see what's obviously in front of his face?

"Look, Sam, I get that it was my fault. I must've done something wrong to make him sell me, but you know, he could've just punished me instead - a long punishment. I woulda took it."

"Dean, nothing was your fault," Sam sighs wearily as he sits down on the bed. "You're in shock, okay? You're not thinking straight."

Dean shivers and tries not to agree with his brother. Yes, his head feels fuzzy and slow and he's unusually cold, but that's just because he's dumb and a wuss, isn't it? That's usually the explanation.

"Now isn't the time to talk about this," Sam adds and Dean nods – finally something they can agree on.

"It's not gonna matter either way if he gets shot." Dean shrugs and tries to ignore Sam's wince. Right now, he'll say anything to get his brother moving.

"Dean, you _can't _walk all the way to Pastor Jim's. You're in shock and you're hurt. Let's just wait here for Dad to come home."

Damn. Dean thought they'd dismissed that idea ages ago.

"I _can _walk that far," Dean argues. "I can walk _further_. I've run farther and faster in worse shape than this."

_Surprising what you can do when you've got a werewolf on your tail..._

"Yeah, Dean, at what cost?" Sam demands and Dean just glares, reacting to Sam's tone because he doesn't understand what the younger man is trying to say.

"You can't just go around hurting yourself like this. You need to take care of yourself, let _us _take care of you."

"Look, I know you - Edwin..." Sam trails off with a sigh before shifting his features and fixing Dean with a determined stare. "I know you probably weren't taught that keeping yourself safe was important and...and maybe that it didn't matter if you got hurt, but it **does **Dean. It - it _matters_, okay?"

Dean simply blinks. His little brother is talking far too fast for him to follow. Something about not getting hurt; is this a trick question? God, his fucking hand really fucking hurts, and worryingly, he's beginning to suspect that it _should _be hurting far more than it already does. 'Shock', huh? Dean could get used to it.

"I still have to go," he mumbles, his voice coming out far less insistent than he was hoping for.

"No, Dean, you _don't _have to go. Dad and Jim can take care of themselves _and _Robby," Sam insists and Dean can't help but shake his head, despite the wave of dizziness it inevitably brings.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," he replies sadly, adding a quick "Sir" on the end of his sentence as his exhausted self-preservation instincts beg him not to bring another beating on himself. He's pretty sure Sam wouldn't hit him just for talking back, but then again, they've never argued for this long before. Sam must have a breaking point somewhere and Dean's worried he's treading dangerously close to it.

Dean shudders at the thought of those long fingers squeezing his throbbing hand. Hell, even a simple touch would be enough to have him screaming - he's sure of it. Once he crosses Sam's line, he doesn't know how far his brother will go. Surely Sam wouldn't love the sound of him screaming - not Sam..._please _not Sam.

Still, he's gotta risk it, for Robby's sake. Hell, maybe even for John's sake.

"I'm going, Sam." He wobbles as he stands but manages to remain upright, more through willpower than any sort of physical strength.

"No, Dean, you're not."

_Fuck, _Dean doesn't have the energy or the time for another argument with his stubborn younger brother.

"You can't keep running off like this all the time, Dean. First Robby and then the ritual and now this; it's no wonder you're not getting better. You haven't had any time to rest!"

Dean doesn't know what that's supposed to mean and he doesn't care; time is running out and it's obvious Sam won't listen to anything Dean has to say.

_You're bait, what did you expect? _a voice inside Dean's head taunts and he scowls, not because he disagrees, but because, upsettingly, the voice is right; he was dumb to think Sam would listen to him or believe him, let alone agree with anything he had to say.

"Bait doesn't need to rest," he replies flatly. "I'm going to Jim's house." He states this as a fact, not a plea.

"No, you're not." Sam sounds equally as determined and Dean curses to himself, trying not to show any of his frustration on his face. He won't stand a chance if he and Samcome to blows, not with his hand like it is coupled with the fact that it's taking every bit of reserve he has to keep on his feet and not throw up.

"Sam..." Dean _really _doesn't want to fight, especially not with Sam, but... "If we have to fight, c-can we do it outside?"

"Dean?"

"John might get mad if I bleed on his stuff..." Dean trails off as he looks around the room, "Well...more mad than he is already..."

"Dean..."

Sam has that look on his face that's a cross between pissed off and exhausted and Dean knows that face means he's said something wrong and that he should apologise, but his hand hurts and he can't remember what they were talking about and what he should apologise _for_.

"Dean, fighting isn't the answer to everything," Sam explains and Dean looks away because Sam's never had to break someone's hand to steal their food. Sam hasn't had someone dislocate his shoulder and break his nose just for a threadbare blanket. Sam doesn't know shit about 'the answer'.

"Sometimes it's okay to just talk about things," the younger man continues. "I know...I know you're not used to it, but..."

"But talking ain't getting us anywhere!" Dean exclaims and then winces as his hand tries to curl into a fist. Fuck, it hurts...it _really _fucking hurts.

"Fuck this!" Dean continues, his voice thick with pain and emotion as he moves past Sam into the living room.

"Dean!" Sam sounds pissed now, but Dean's too angry to care and he carries on walking to the exit. "Dean, stop it, just wait."

"Or what, Sam?" Dean yells and turns in the doorframe until he's facing his younger brother. He tries not to lean against it too much.

"What are you gonna do that hasn't been done to me before? Huh? You're so _worried_ about me going out there, finding Daddy's little secret; what can you threaten me with that Edwin hasn't put me through already?"

Dean would give anything to be able to stop shaking. He's no longer simply leaning on the doorframe, he's almost clinging for dear life.

"You think...you think you're so damned smart - what the fuck are you gonna do, that no one's done to me before?" Dean doesn't have the energy to shout any more but thankfully, Sam's not in the mood for shouting, either, as he replies softly:

"I'm going to help you."

And Dean has to admit...that _is _a first for him.


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: Wow - thirty chapters! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed and given me support! I really really really appreciate it and I hope you enjoy the chapters to come! **

* * *

Chapter Thirty

Sam knows his Dad is gonna kill him. Dad always has some reason to be mad or upset with him lately, or it's the other way around. Sam sighs as he remembers the days when things used to be okay between them: the days when he studied and went hunting and played soccer, the days before they found -

_No! _

Sam cuts that train of thought off abruptly, focusing intently at the muddy earth beneath his feet. Dean's pace is slow enough that Sam finds himself studying the ground in detail, counting the pebbles and scuffing at the grit with his shoes in an attempt to keep himself from thinking the unforgivable.

It's not Dean's fault he can't adjust, not Dean's fault he's disrupting Sam's -

_Disrupting?! _God, he sounds like his father; Sam feels guilty the moment the word even enters his thoughts.

All those times while he'd been playing soccer and hanging with his friends, Dean had been suffering and afraid and hurt. He endured twenty years of that and now Sam somehow finds it in himself to actually _resent _his older brother for not being able to adjust? How fucking selfish can he be? No wonder Dean is so mistrustful of him; he must have been picking up what Sam didn't even realize he'd been thinking until now.

The older Winchester is still trudging silently at Sam's side, his footsteps uneven as they tread a weaving path through the camp. His brother has his injured hand cradled to his chest and Sam can see blood seeping into the bandage he'd hastily wrapped round the wound before Dean had a chance to change his mind. Apparently even Dean, despite all his hatred of medical care, accepted the fact that he shouldn't be walking around outside with his bone exposed to the elements and germs.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean's voice is thin and strained. Sam knows the guy must be in agony and now really isn't the time for them to be having a brotherly chat (like they haven't had enough of those these past few hours), but he needs to get this off his chest. Needs Dean's forgiveness for even _thinking _about resenting his big brother.

"I'm glad you're here."

Dean cocks an eyebrow as he turns his head slightly to glance at Sam out of his glazed eyes. "You didn't seem so keen on the idea back hom - back at John's house."

"Back home?" Sam questions, unable to stop the smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the fact that he knows he shouldn't make a big deal out of this and freak Dean out.

"I'm sorry," Dean mumbles, shifting his gaze back to the space between his feet. "It's just...it's what you call it and I..."

"It's your home, too, Dean," Sam explains when his brother's sentence trails off into silence.

Dean shrugs and Sam sees the shudder of pain that wracks the elder man's body.

"I don't...I don't even get it...I don't own...I - I don't have..."

"Don't worry about it," Sam cuts into Dean's confused mumbling. God, Dean's in no shape to even hold a coherent conversation let alone traipse the miles to Jim's house.

"We can talk about it when you're not...when we've had some rest."

Dean nods slowly, although the blank expression on his face leaves Sam wondering if the older man even remembers what Sam's referring to.

"Edwin didn't like me resting."

Dean's blurted admission takes Sam by surprise and he's torn between telling Dean to save his strength and prying for more information.

"Is that right?" Dad's always said he was too curious for his own good; now he's also too curious for Dean's good. God, after everything the older man has been through, Dean deserves a better brother than Sam 'you're-injured-and-in-shock-but-I'm-going-to-let-you-walk-for-miles-in-the-freezing-cold-because-I'm-a-freak-who-sees-the-future' Winchester.

But Dean is clearly too exhausted to explain any more. "Yeah..."

His soft admission is so defeated that Sam can't find the heart to press any further.

And then Sam's heart is leaping from the pit of his stomach and into his throat as Dean stumbles and almost falls.

"Dean!" He's there in an instant, his hands placed supportively on his older brother's shoulders.

"Dean, man, you alright?" Sam can feel Dean trying to pull away from his hands and he tightens his grip – Dean's having enough problems staying upright as it is and he doesn't want to think about what'll happen if Dean starts leaning backwards...what might happen if Dean lands on his injured hand.

"Sorry, Sam..." Dean sounds more than a little dazed. "I fell."

"Yeah." Sam scans the ground around them. There's nothing Dean could have tripped over; the guy's just too hurt and weary to pick up his own feet. "It's okay."

But it's so _not _okay.

"You don't have to wait for me."

"What?" Sam has to fight the urge not to throttle his older brother.

_It's the shock, _he reminds himself. _He's confused and in shock. It's not his fault._

"Dean, the whole reason I even came out here was so that you wouldn't be alone," Sam explains exasperatedly. "_I _wanted to stay at home, remember?" The hunter can't stop the hint of resentment that creeps into his voice.

Dean turns his head at that, staring at Sam with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "I know."

There's a pause as Dean looks down at the floor again, his voice hoarse and conspiratorially quiet. "Thanks, Sam."

"It's okay," Sam sighs, his anger draining away in the face of Dean's rare but genuine gratitude. "Come on, we're more than three quarters of the way there now."

Sam's not even thinking as he drapes Dean's arm over his shoulder, his thoughts preoccupied with watching the murky orange glow of the sun dip below the horizon. At least the sun is on their side; hunters don't like to linger outside at night, not even in this supposedly demon-proof camp.

Besides, seeing a pair of injured guys walking home at night isn't _that _unusual when you live in a hunter's camp. He's had a few comments from a distance of 'Good hunt, Sam?' and 'Bagged us another one?', but thankfully, no one's stopped to talk to him at close range or paid any attention to the injured guy limping at his side.

Sam's felt Dean tense up beside him at each and every encounter, though, seen the flash of suspicion and fear in his brother's eyes whenever anybody looked at them. Of course, to Dean, everyone is a potential threat and he was simply reacting accordingly, but it pains Sam to think that Dean would believe even total strangers would want to hurt him.

Sam frowns when he feels Dean pulling away from him and it's only when he looks at the older man and sees the barely concealed panic in his expression that he realizes the problem.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," the hunter assures his brother.

"Please, Sam..." Dean's voice is barely more than a whisper as he looks anywhere but at Sam's face. "I don't like people touching me."

"I know, Dean," Sam sighs, hating himself for not letting go, for not allowing Dean this one, rare moment of weakness, "but we need to get to Jim's quickly and you can barely walk. You have to let me help you."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying," Dean replies earnestly and Sam cringes at his brother's tone.

"It's not your fault," Sam explains, trying to meet Dean's eyes. "I promise, Dean, this isn't a punishment. I'm trying to help you, not hurt you."

Dean glances up at this and Sam catches a glimmer of suspicion and distrust in his brother's glazed eyes. He can see Dean's mind, dulled and clouded by shock and exhaustion, sluggishly trying to figure out the catch in Sam's offer of help. And as much as he would love to give Dean the time to work this all out, time is one thing they don't have.

"Dean, look, I'm sorry, I really am - the last thing I want to do is put you through something you don't want..."

_Like, say, an agonising, brain-splitting ritual? _Sam tries to ignore the malicious whisperings of guilt at the back of his mind as he reasons with his older brother.

"But we really don't have a choice here. You can't walk to Pastor Jim's on your own, not before you collapse from exhaustion or bleed to death."

Sam knows he's being harsh, but he's so damned weary and sick of all this drama that now he's opened the floodgates holding back that well of resentment that he'd pushed to the back of his mind earlier, he can't seem to stop.

"You're the one who's so sure that we need to get there right now. We only came out here because it's what you wanted to do," Sam continues.

"I - "

"Coming out here is one thing, but staying at night time, for no reason other than your..."

Sam bites off his sentence even as the next word forms on his lips - _Issues? Problems? Paranoia? _How the hell can he sum up the whole of Dean's screwed-up mindset into one little word?

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dean takes the opportunity presented by Sam's silence to offer his apology. Sam would bet a week's worth of ration coupons that the older man has no idea what he's apologising for.

"Why don't you just leave me out here? I won't run...I'll fight if anyone tries to steal me."

"What the...?" Sam curls his free hand into a fist in his hair and tries very, very hard not to scream in frustration. "Dean, we've been over this already. Leaving you here would defeat the whole point of..." Sam shakes his head, his rage draining away as he realizes how hopeless it is trying to get through to his brother in his current state.

"I promised I was going to help you, Dean," he tries again, hoping some simple, quantifiable logic will be enough to ease his older brother's suspicions. "So that's what I'm going to do."

Dean nods timidly and Sam can't be mad when he sees what his earlier anger has reduced his usually rebellious, aggressive big brother to.

"Is me helping you to walk really so awful for you that you'd really rather risk being left alone in the middle of camp?" Sam asks as they begin walking. He's not really expecting to receive an answer and for a full minute he doesn't receive one. He and Dean make their way through the camp in silence until one confused, thoughtful word whispers its way through the quiet:

"No."

There's another pause and Dean sounds even more surprised when he speaks this time. "It's not."

And Sam wonders if maybe, just maybe, something good might have come out of this hellish, emotional day after all.

* * *

"Is she here?"

As he scans Pastor Jim's living room for any sign of the girl, John guiltily hopes the answer to his question will be no, not only for the sake of his sons, but because (even though he'd never admit it to Missouri) that daughter of hers is just plain creepy. Oh, and there's the fact she can stop his heart with one touch - that doesn't exactly win her any favours, either.

John sighs to himself; he's known the girl since he first met Missouri...it must be coming on fifteen years now. He _really _needs to get over this. The hunter knows better than to believe in fate, but he's always found it strange that Missouri has been so close to him for almost his whole life, from the two of them unknowingly living on the same street before 'Gate, to settling down in the same camp after it. And now they both have children that need to be kept secret; John glances at Jim and for once envies the man and his relatively uncomplicated life.

"No, she's not," Jim replies, his reply as vague and unspecific as John's question. Secrecy comes naturally to them both now when it comes to Lily Mosely.

John feels himself sag with relief at Jim's answer and the resulting rush of emotion is one of sympathy, not guilt. The way he sees it, he's got a right to be freaked by the girl.

'_She can take you to the brink of death and beyond or bring you back from it, no in-betweens, ' _Missouri had explained to him while he'd watched, open mouthed, as the girl lightly traced a finger over a withered plant and its brown, shrivelled leaves filled out with colour until the girl was standing in front of a healthy, thriving lobelia.

'_I'm guessing this doesn't just apply to plants?' _John had asked with trepidation, and terrifyingly, he'd been right.

As one of the very few people aware of the girl's existence, John knows he should make more of an effort to accept her. Lord knows the girl must be pretty lonely since she's been holed up in Missouri's warded house for most of her life, but the hunter just can't feel comfortable around her. The very idea of a person holding power like that, power way beyond any psychic John's ever heard of, has always sounded a little too...demonic to John.

"I wanted to check before bringing the boys here," John explains and Jim nods.

"I understand," the cleric smiles gently, "but I can't believe you managed to persuade them to stay at home." The man laughs softly but John can see a hint of seriousness in those eyes and he cringes when the mirth fades from the pastor's eyes and that seriousness is all that's left.

Well, seriousness and a hint of _suspicion_. "John?"

"Well, I..."

_I fought with both my sons and chained them to a bed, then left them alone with only salt lines at the windows and doors for protection. _

What the holy fuck had he been thinking?

"I should be getting back to them." John is heading to the door before he even finishes his sentence.

"D-Dean's pretty eager to see..." It's half an explanation and half an excuse, but John's words slowly trail off to nothing as he sets eyes on a short, scruffy-looking blond kid in the doorway.

"To see _you_, actually," he finishes with a nervous laugh. He's addressing the boy, but his attention isn't focused on the kid's face. Just looking at that hat brings back so many memories that John doesn't want to let himself dwell on.

_Jeez, Bobby, I sure as hell wish you were here to help me out with this..._

The kid shoots him a long, lingering stare that lasts way too long to be comfortable before turning to look at Jim Murphy.

"Sir? May I speak?"

John knows he's being way too sentimental when he starts imagining that the kid even _sounds _like Bobby.

"Of course you can, Scrap. You don't need to ask for permission," Jim smiles kindly and John frowns a little...maybe Jim Murphy's life isn't as uncomplicated as it used to be.

"You need...we need...there's people coming."

Nostalgia or not, there's no mistaking the hint of a gravelly undertone in the kid's voice that gives his words a rough edge to them. And John doesn't remember anyone except Robert Singer who could have made 'please may I speak, Sir?' sound macho.

And wait...what? People coming?

"Scrap?" Jim seems to have cottoned onto the panic bandwagon a lot quicker than John and the pastor is already reaching into his weapons chest.

"They know I'm here."

Robby...Scrap...the kid, whatever his name is, has a distant look in his eyes, but it's laced with what John recognizes as the beginnings of panic. He's seen the expression form on Dean's face so many times that he can recognize it in an instant now. Of course, if Dean's wearing that expression it usually means John's already screwed up, so John's newfound perception hasn't really done him much good so far.

"They're coming to take me back." The boy whips round to look at Jim and John notices that he shakes his head at the pistol Jim offers him.

"If they find you here, they'll be mad. They'll kill you," Robby explains and John exchanges a confused, worried glance with his old friend.

"I'll go with them. I won't put up a fight. Your house won't get messed up."

John can see the kid's bottom lip quivering as those gray eyes fix on Jim's door with a look of dread. In that moment, the hunter is reminded so much of Dean that it's frightening.

' _You can beat me however much you want, I-I won't sleep on your bed, I won't eat your food, I…you can have the clothes back, you can save your bandages, I'll bleed outside, I won't get your house dirty. Please…Sir.'_

Those words have been scorched into John's memory, a constant reminder of how badly he's failed his son. And now he's staring into the same look of terrified resignation and listening to the same list of screwed up priorities...hell, no!

John Winchester usually doesn't care much for those outside his friends and family. He's become hardened to the suffering of others, he's had to – better them than his family, right? But he hasn't always been like that; John casts his mind back to his life before 'Gate, remembers coaching little league baseball and how much those little kids had looked up to him. Remembers how responsible he'd felt for all of them, how he'd broken the nose of Paul Wilmont when little James Wilmont had shown up with yet another black eye, five finger-shaped bruises on each arm and some bullshit story about falling down stairs.

Yeah, 'Gate has weathered John Winchester into a hard, hard man, but there's still something deep in his core that twinges when he walks past a grieving widow, something that nags at him every time he steps over some street kid lying in the road and that screams at the injustice of the whole damned world that forces him to be so cold.

Besides, this kid is Dean's friend and John will do anything it takes to win Dean's respect, to make up for all he's put the boy through since they found him, and everything he failed to save him from before. The hunter has a feeling that this boy might just be the way to do it.

"Bullshit you won't put up a fight." So he's _feeling _unusually sensitive, that doesn't mean he's going to _show _it.

The boy glances nervously at John and then at Jim. "I don't think they'll sell me, they need me to find..." the kid trails off and anything John might have said is drowned out by a loud thump that can only be caused by something striking the front door of Jim's house.

The sound echoes ominously in the cosy living room and John knows that this sure ain't a house call.

"Scrap, go down to the basement and stay there until we come get you."

John can't remember the last time he's heard Jim sounding so forceful.

"But - "

"_Now_, Scrap, don't argue."

_Never_, John decides as he watches Robby nod nervously before fleeing the room. He can hear the sound of the old bolt across Jim's trap door being drawn back through the rusty lock and then another thump from the front door drowns out anything else.

"Whatever you're selling, we're not interested!" he heckles as he grabs himself a shotgun from Jim's chest.

Jim has a panicked, disapproving look on his face and John smirks.

_Guess God doesn't approve of trash-talking._

The sound of a gunshot wipes the smirk off John's face and the hunter instinctively takes cover round a corner. What kind of people would shoot a gun in the middle of camp? From the corner of his eye, John sees Jim duck behind the couch and then his attention is drawn back to the sound of the door crashing against the wall.

The front entrance isn't visible from the living room, but John knows that Jim's lock has just been blown to kingdom come and whoever these people are, they're in the house.

"Find him! Kill anyone that gets in the way!"

John's blood boils as he hears a familiar voice.

_Walker!_

Gordon Walker is just metres away from him and this time John won't make the mistake of sparing the man's life.


	31. Chapter 31

**AN: Sorry guys - I'm sooo swamped with assignments right now I'm really struggling to write without feeling guilty that I should be sudying. Thank you very much to everyone sticking with the fic, especially to those of you who are so kind as to take time out to review, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
**

Chapter Thirty One

As Pastor Jim's house finally comes into view on the horizon, Dean can feel his heart starting to race. He should feel relieved that they've finally arrived, but he knows better than to let his guard down or relax in any situation, especially one as potentially dangerous as this.

Sam, however, seems to have no such worries as he turns to Dean and smiles. "See, I told you ."

The rest of the youngest Winchester's words are drowned out by the sound of a gunshot and Dean startles, glancing briefly at Sam with wide, panicked eyes before breaking free of his brother's gentle grip and stumbling towards Jim's house.

"Dean!" Sam quickly catches up to his brother and tries not to jerk him backwards too hard when he grabs the man's good arm once again.

"Sam, get off!" Dean's pale, tired features are schooled into an exhausted mixture of panic, confusion and frustration. "We have to go in there!"

"Go in there with _what_?" Sam counters, trying to keep calm in the face of Dean's panic. "You planning on hitting anyone with that hand of yours?"

Dean simply glares in response to Sam's sarcasm. "Then I'll hit them with my other one," he counters with a scowl.

"Or," Sam counters calmly, his hand reaching into his pocket, "we could use this."

Dean eyes the gun warily. It seems to take him a few seconds longer than it should to realize what exactly it is, but when he does, he immediately reaches out for it.

"Oh, dude, no. No way." Sam quickly moves the gun out of Dean's reach and Dean frowns. Why is Sam playing games with him? They've come this far - Sam's even helped him walk...it can't have all been a trick, could it? Not Sam...Sam wouldn't...he _wouldn't_trick him like this...would he?

"Sam...please." Dean knows, deep down, that he's not really asking for the gun, not really asking for Sam to hurry up – all he's asking for, _pleading_ for, is for this to not be a trick. For Sam to not let him get so close to seeing Robby only to stop him at this final stretch.

_Please...please don't turn out to be like all my other owners. _

"Dean, you can't even _walk _straight, let alone _shoot_ straight."

Dean can _feel _himself trembling, his body obviously in agreement with Sam, but it doesn't matter. No one's ever cared when he's been weary or weak before. He's been expected to train and run and be a useful piece of bait; that's what you do when you're hurt, right? Just push yourself that much harder.

I'm fine," he argues, but Sam doesn't even acknowledge the lie.

"I'll go in first and keep them at bay." Dean feels nervous as he listens to Sam's orders. He doesn't know who 'they' are, but he has a hunch and a sick feeling of dread in his stomach that his suspicions might be correct...Or maybe that's just the nausea that tends to set in when you smash your own thumb with a brick. Dean can't tell anymore...God, he's tired.

"You follow behind, keep yourself safe. If there's anyone injured, you pull them out as best you can, okay, but keep out of sight and out of the line of fire as best you can, alright?"

Dean nods wearily as he tries to follow Sam's plan. He feels so exhausted, like his whole body is dulled and slowing down, but the pain is just coming faster and more intense. He's a fucking mess. What use is he to Robby in this state? What use is he to anyone? Nothing, a waste of fucking space, just like usual.

"Sam I...I." But he can't find the words. Doesn't even know what he's trying to say. "My hand hurts..."

It's the one thought that's constantly circling in his head and the only thing he can manage to force out of his mouth. Maybe it's because something in his brain is telling him that he shouldn't be talking...that they're in a hurry to do...to do...something... Where are they again?

"I know, Dean, I know. You can sit this one out if you want. I'd prefer it if you did, but either way, we gotta move, now!"

And Dean does move as he forces himself to focus on the task at hand – Robby's life is at stake here...he shouldn't keep forgetting that. Why does he keep forgetting that?

Dean grits his teeth as he follows determinedly behind Sam, his injured hand cradled tight to his chest and his glazed eyes focused on Pastor Jim's house in the distance. This is his chance to save Robby, to make up for everything he's put his friend through, to prove to Sam that he's not a fuck up and to prove to John that _nothing _will get in the way of him and Robby Singer.

It might be fucking impossible to think straight right now, but Dean knows one fact with absolute certainty – this is gonna be the fight of his life.

* * *

The minute he fires the gun, John knows that something is wrong, that something in the recoil just doesn't _feel _right. It takes him a fraction of a second to realise the problem, but when he does, he turns to Jim with frustration and surprise in his eyes.

"Rock salt?!" he bellows over the sound of Gordon Walker's groan of pain and the cries of his henchman. "You have your shotguns loaded with rock salt?!"

"They're for shooting spirits, John, not people!" Jim counters from behind the couch and John growls in annoyance.

_Going to battle with only a priest fighting by my side_... John knows he's fucked and the bullets splintering through the wooden walls of Jim's house only confirm that fact.

"Damn it," he curses as he shoots blindly round the corner with his ineffective weapon. By his estimation, Walker's brought two men with him and they're both armed. The hunter knows his best chance is to take out the guy shooting at him now while the second goon is dragging Walker to safety. But this guy's fire is relentless and all John's got is a gun full of _rock salt_and a man who won't kill anyone as his back up.

"God fucking damn it!"

_Where the hell is security?! The whole camp must be able to hear this fire fight._

There's a break in the gunfire and Johnrisks a glance around the corner to aim his gun. The man's tall - a big enough target even when all you've got for ammo is something as inaccurate as rock salt - but as John aims and fires, he can instantly tell that for the second time since this fire fight began, something isn't right.

"Fuck!" he curses aloud as he throws the empty gun to the floor and wonders why the hell he didn't bring his handgun with him. But why would he? He was only going to visit a friend. Amidst all the chaos, John takes a brief second to acknowledge that his world is a hell of a lot more dangerous these days - if he's going to do his duty as a father and protect his boys, he needs to step up his game. He's failed Dean once; losing the boy again is just not an option.

As he peeks out from the safety of his corner to try and figure out his next move, John's alarmed to see that Jim is nowhere in sight.

_Shit._

He can tell, just from the few minutes of interaction he's witnessed, that Jim's developed a soft spot for Dean's little friend, but surely the man knows better than to abandon him like this?

"Murphy?!" he roars. He hears a man screaming and it's only his years of experience as a hunter that keep him pressed into the safety of his corner instead of rushing out to see what's happening.

"Right here, John."

John can hear the smile in the man's voice and he figures that's a good enough indication as any that it's safe to break cover. His intuition turns out to be right as he walks cautiously into the middle of the room to find Jim standing over the fallen body of their assailant.

"I didn't know you had it in you," John smirks, eyeing the taser in the pastor's hand. "You sure we're not going to get smited for this?"

Yeah, so maybe he's a little disgruntled that Jim Murphy took out the guy before he did, but these guys abused his son. He's entitled to his vengeance.

"I think the Lord is on our side for this one," Jim smiles, either not noticing or not rising to John's sarcasm.

John just shrugs as he regards the unconscious man on the floor. God hasn't been on his side for a long time now and he's sure the big man wouldn't approve of what he has in store for the rest of these men.

When he looks up from the unmoving form of the intruder, John's eyes are cold and unforgiving.

"You got anything in there that can kill a human?" he asks, nodding towards Jim's weapon chest.

"John -" the Pastor starts, but John's not in the mood to hear it.

"Time's a-wasting, Pastor," he declares pointedly as he makes his way over to the trunk with powerful determined strides.

There are a few seconds of silence which feel like an eternity to John before Jim speaks again, his voice laced with grim resignation.

"Derringer, bottom left."

John quickly finds the pistol, cupping it in his hand as he tests the weight.

"It's loaded with silver bullets," Jim continues and John nods. If he had his way he'd rather just take a spare plank of wood and _beat _Gordon Walker to death with it. A bullet's too quick for the man and it's a shame to waste a commodity as valuable as silver on a piece of scum like Gordon Walker.

"I'll stay and watch him," Jim gestures to the unconscious assailant as John makes his way to the front door. John just nods in response, halting when Jim calls out his name.

"John?"

He turns, staring the Pastor dead in the eyes; John Winchester doesn't care if he's judged for this, least of all by Jim Murphy – the man can't even imagine what he's been through these past months.

"What?"

To his surprise the pastor's mouth is turned into an almost-smirk.

"An eye for an eye, John," he says pointedly, his tone as dark as John's ever heard it, laced with a finality that seems more than fitting. "Do what needs to be done."

* * *

"_This was such a fucking bad idea," _Sam sighs to himself as the sound of gunshots echo through the air.

There's a gunfight going on in there, that much is obvious, but rushing in without intelligence, a plan _or _backup goes against everything Dad's ever told him. It would be just his luck to open the door and get shot straight away and boy, _that _wouldsure piss Dad off. In fact, the only thing that would make Dad more pissed off at him than that would be if _Dean _got hurt. All things considered, neither possibility looks too unlikely right now.

"Dean, you stay out here," Sam points to a low wall that's the closest thing they have for cover right now. "I'll call you if I need you!" the young hunter continues, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.

"But -" It's hard to hear Dean's protest, but Sam doesn't even need to listen to the rest of it.

"No buts, Dean, we've covered this already!" the hunter yells to his older brother.

_God, please, please, please let Dean listen to him for once. _

"You just go over there and ."

"Oh, I don't think he's going anywhere."

Sam looks up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and gasps. He's been so busy trying to find a safe place for Dean that he's allowed not one, but _two _people to sneak up on him unnoticed?!

_Oh, yeah...Dad's gonna be pissed alright._

The men are about fifteen feet away, just a little _too _close for comfort, but at least it means Sam can get a good look at them. The first guy doesn't look anything out of the ordinary, well apart from the fact that he's got a gun pointed at Sam's brother. His face is waxen and wrinkled, and it's only the blondeness of his full head of hair and his strong posture that indicate he's anything other than an old man. There's something about the face that Sam can't seem to shake...something _familiar._

The second man, however, who's currently bent over groaning in pain, is all _too _familiar.

"Walker..."

God...he's never going to admit this in a million years, but Sam so wishes that his Dad was here – pissed off or not.

Dean seems to snap out of whatever stupor he's been in, moving to stand in front of Sam and doing his damndest to glare at Walker and his partner.

"Dean..." It's not the first time Dean's tried to protect him like this and even though Sam wants to savour the moment, he knows he can't. Dean's love or even friendship might be the thing he wants most in the world but this is the last way he'd ever want his brother to show it.

"That's it, Bait, get where you belong."

Gordon Walker's sadistic tone cuts through the air, cutting off any reply Dean might have made. Sam's cruelly delighted at the pain in the man's voice, but at the same time he can't help but be worried about Pastor Jim and Robby – he doesn't get the impression that Gordon Walker is a man who spares lives.

"Right in the path of a bullet..."

Walker is limping towards them now, the second man at his side, and Sam moves to stand beside his brother, steadying the older man with a hand on his arm.

"It's good to see you haven't forgotten too much of your training," Walker smirks as he approaches. He's close enough now that Sam can see the rips in his tee shirt, the scattering of...is that salt? In the background, gunshots and yells still punctuate the air and Sam grits his teeth. What the hell is going on in there?

"I'd hate to be the one to have to teach you those lessons again."

"Stay the fuck away from my brother!" Sam screams as Gordon draws ever closer. He's panicking now, his hands shaking and damp with sweat as he clutches the gun in a white-knuckle grip and aims it at Walker's head.

"Shoot that thing and I'll blow big brother's head off," the blonde man taunts.

_Oh God...Dad...help me!_

"What do you want?" Sam hopes his voice sounds more confident to Walker's ears than it does to his own.

"We _want _our property back," the blonde man continues as Walker winces, momentarily incapacitated by some sort of pain; Sam guesses it's something to do with the wounds on his chest.

"Dean is _not_your property," Sam retorts, his panic turning into ice-cold fury in the wake of the statement.

"We weren't talking about 'Dean'."

Walker sniggers as he speaks Dean's name, exchanging a mocking look with his partner. "But since the demon brat is off limits, we'll make do with some bait instead."

"N-no."

Dean's voice is so weak and quiet he sounds more like a child than Sam can ever remember hearing. The young hunter knows, right there and then, that he _can't _let these men take his brother. He can't and he _won't_.

"No?" Walker taunts, finally stopping his approach as he halts, just far enough out of reach to be safe from anyone taking a swing at him.

Sam feels a shiver run through him...these people are so dangerous and he's so, _so_ alone...suddenly he doesn't feel like Sam Winchester – the man who brought down Azazel, more like Sam Winchester – twenty years old and in way over his head.

"Since when do you have the right to say 'no' to me?"

"J-John's got my papers. You don't own me."

Sam can _hear _Dean trying to disguise the tremors in his voice. To see his smartass big brother reduced to this is possibly even more terrifying than seeing a gun aimed at his head.

"The last time I met _John_ he threatened to kill me," Walker replies, his tone turning bitter for a second. "But I guess you weren't valuable enough for Daddy to waste a bullet killing me, huh, Dean?"

Sam watches Dean flinch at this.

"Don't listen to him," he tells the older man determinedly, but he doubts his brother is listening. The older man's eyes are glazed, trapped in a world of memories as Gordon Walker shreds Dean to pieces with his own insecurities.

"No, I think he _should _listen," Walker counters coldly. "Listening to me kept you alive all those years, didn't it, boy?"

Sam's appalled to see Dean nod.

"_Fuck it, Dean – he's __**lying**__!" _he wants to scream, but the truth is, he has no idea about Dean's relationship with this man apart from what he could guess from their earlier encounter.

"How many times did I save your skin, Bait? How many times would Edwin have beaten you to death, _starved _you to death, if I hadn't stepped in?"

"Shut up!" Sam demands, brandishing his gun. "Just shut the fuck up!"

It's only when he hears the loudness of his own near-hysterical voice that he realises the gunshots have stopped. The young hunter risks a glance towards Jim's house.

His eyes widen as he spots another figure in the doorway and then he's almost sobbing, not with frustration, but relief – in the twenty years he's been alive, Sam can safely say that he's never been more relieved to see his father. As he watches Dad raise his weapon, Sam knows what he has to do.

It only takes one look at Dean to settle his resolve and Sam finds himself almost grinning as he pulls the trigger and, at twenty years old, ends his first human life.


	32. Chapter 32

**AN: Hi everyone, sorry for the delay with this chapter. I'm going through a really hard time at the minute so it's not as long as usual and it might not be to my usual standard but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. Thank to smokeyhorse for a brilliant beta job, please read my note at the end of the chapter. **

Chapter Thirty Two

The ever so welcome adrenaline coursing through John's body makes it seem as though everything around him is moving slower than it should be and the hunter savors every second of it. Walker's corpse seems to take an eternity to topple to the floor, but once it's there, John doesn't stop firing. Bullet after bullet rips into the man's flesh and John relishes the sight; he knows it's overkill but he doesn't care. As John stands over the man's lifeless body, his only regret is that he didn't get to look the man in the eyes before he shot him.

Uncaring of the blood that splatters his boots, the hunter nudges Walker's corpse onto his back. The man's brown eyes are empty and glazed staring into hell. John only stares for a moment before he levels his pistol and fires a bullet right in between them.

"That," he informs the dead man, "was for Dean."

"John…"

The eldest Winchester looks up at the sound of the gentle voice.

"Enough."

Murphy's voice is weary, tinged with sadness, but even standing in the middle of such carnage, John can't find it within himself to agree.

"No," he whispers, his eyes riveted on Gordon Walker's dead body. "It'll never be enough."

Because one bullet to the brain can't make up for the lifetime of hell Dean's been through. No vengeance can make up for the two decades of agony that he's spent without his eldest son. Nothing he can do can fix the past; John realizes that now. All that's left, then, is to work on the present, to rebuild his damaged, brutalized boy into the man that John _knows _he can become.

But damn, if that isn't a hundred times more terrifying than a firefight.

Feeling oddly at peace, John finally looks up to take in the rest of the scene around the yard. His youngest son is puking while his eldest hovers around looking worried. John knows that Dean's probably more anxious about what 'punishment' Sam will get for throwing up than _why _he's throwing up in the first place.

But then again, the reasons, or _reason,_is fairly obvious - Walker's accomplice splayed on the ground, as dead as his boss.

John smiles proudly. _"I knew you had it in you, kid." _

He's under no illusions. Of course, Sammy is going to throw a bitch fit about this and lecture John with 'morals' and 'boundaries' and 'the code', but John can live with that. The real test is whether _Sam_ can live with _himself. _Just one more thing John has to worry about… Godammit, shooting Walker was supposed to _fix _all this. They get revenge, kill the bad guys and everything's alright. That's how it works…

"_In fairy tales, Winchester," _John mocks himself.

"Pastor Jim, Sir?"

John startles at the sound of an unfamiliar voice and then almost _laughs _at the sight before him. Dean's short little friend is dragging the huge goon out of Jim's house by one of his arms, Bobby Singer's baseball cap askew on his head and a look on his face as though this is nothing out of the ordinary.

"Where should I put this guy?"

"Oh...erm." Even Pastor Jim looks ruffled and John feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even in this most desperate of situations. Maybe things aren't so dark in his world anymore.

Anything the pastor might have said is cut off, however, by an astonished gasp from Dean and John watches as his boy pushes Sammy aside and rushes toward the kid in the doorway. He knows that he should give his boy some privacy, that he should really go check on Sam, that there're two corpses and a man unconscious on the ground around him, and he _really _needs to think of something to tell security when they inevitably appear, but he can't tear his eyes away, doesn't _want _to and...and what the _fuck_is wrong with Dean's hand?

John's calm is gone in an instant - he hasn't got a clue how his son's hand ended up in such a state, but he wants an explanation, revenge and his son's hand fixed _now _and not necessarily in that order.

But before he has the chance to march over to his son and let loose with all of this, he feels a hand gripping his bicep and he looks at the man who grabbed him with a look of confusion and alarm.

"Murphy!" he protests, yanking his arm away from the man's gentle hold.

"Not yet," the pastor says calmly. "Give them a minute."

John opens his mouth to argue but Pastor Jim silences him with nothing more than a slight shake of his head.

"Your other boy needs you more right now, John."

And one brief look at his youngest son, now on his knees in the bloodstained dirt his eyes huge in his too-pale face is all it takes for John to know his old friend is right...as usual.

* * *

"Robby..."

Dean breathes the name like a sigh, reaching out to grasp his best friend's shoulder and not caring that he must be leaving bruises. Robby's here and he's safe...running away and breaking his hand and watching Walker die...it's all worth it. It _has _to be worth it.

"You okay?" he asks, the words blurring together in his haste. If he wasn't so fucking exhausted, he'd ask the other thousand questions that he needs to know the answers to.

"I'm okay."

"_Thank fucking God."_

The overwhelming sense of relief is enough to send Dean crashing to his knees. It's not a lot, just two words, but it's enough, it's gotta be enough because he can't do any more. He's so damned tired, but he can rest now…can't he?

"Dean? Are you alright?"

Robby is crouched down beside him and Dean tries to focus on his friend's blurry form.

"I've come to rescue you," he mumbles wearily, frowning when Robby giggles – this isn't funny…is it? He can't remember…

"Good job," Robby smirks. "Now it's my turn."

Dean can feel his friend's hands pressing gently against his wrist, just above the mangled mess of his thumb socket, and he tenses, knowing what's to come. But it's been months since Robby's healed him like this, and the agonizing ache as his bones shift and fuse back together is enough to have him groaning in pain, even though he tries to stifle it.

"Sorry, Dean," Robby murmurs, "but you hurt it real bad."

"No shit," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. His skin itches as it knits back together and he's burning under his skin as Robby sears away the infection, but he knows better than to touch it, knows all he can do is endure, because it'll be worth it in the end.

And it is. Just like always. Sixty seconds of agony and it's all over. He feels refreshed and alert and he smiles as he experimentally flexes his hand – good as new.

"Thanks, Scrap," he grins. He can see by looking at his friend's pale face how much this took out of him, and as always, he's grateful. Dean doesn't want to imagine what would have happened to his hand if Robby hadn't healed him, but he knows it wouldn't have been pretty. Besides, a one-handed bait isn't much use to anyone.

"I'm a bit outta practice," Robby replies sheepishly, wiping away the sweat beading on his brow with the sleeve of his obviously new shirt.

Dean nods his approval as he looks past his friend to the carnage around them - more specifically, to Gordon Walker, or his corpse at any rate. He should feel angry, elated, relived, upset…_something_, but he doesn't. He's just empty. Can't even bring himself to give a shit about the fact that the man who brought him up for twenty years has just died right in front of him, killed by Dean's own father. But what can people expect of him? After all, he's only bait.

"I didn't tell him."

Dean looks away from Walker's corpse and into Robby's earnest stare.

"I didn't tell him where you were."

Dean pauses a minute as he tries to figure out what Robby means. But so much has happened and he doesn't even know where to start.

"I missed you, Dean."

Well...Robby always was the best at this 'talking' crap. It figures he'd know what to talk about.

"Yeah." It's as close as Dean's gonna get to reciprocating the sentiment; he hates this girly 'feelings' shit, but he'll tolerate it for Scrap, just this once.

"I knew you were safe, though. With...with them," Robby gestures to John and Sam with a nod of his head. "I told Walker I didn't know where you were. He wanted me to find you. He wanted you for hunting, but I knew you were safer with them, so I told him I didn't know where you were."

Dean just looks at the ground. The whole time he was sleeping in a bed and eating food and getting new clothes, Robby was being interrogated by Walker. And Robby had _seen _it, he'd watched Dean live in luxury while...

Dean shook his head angrily, guiltily. How could he have let Robby down like this? He should have rescued him _sooner, _godammit! Instead it took a fucking vision to get him moving and at the end of it all, he screwed up and had to get John fucking Winchester to save him. And now it's happened _twice_ - what the fuck is _wrong _with him?!

"Did he..." Dean swallows around the lump in his throat as he turns his attention back to his friend. "What did he do to you?"

Robby looks away at that and Dean grits his teeth in annoyance. Sam and John might be confusing as fuck to him, but he _knows _his best friend and he knows when the kid is hiding something.

"Don't lie to me," he cautions and Robby shrugs, a tearful quirk of a smile on his face.

"It wasn't much, I promise. Just the usual, like, you know...his belt...whatever."

Robby shrugs again, but Dean isn't fooled by the younger man's pretense - the kid always was a terrible liar. Still, it can wait. He needs to keep his wits about him right now. Walker and Kubrick are dead and that means John and Sam might be in trouble. John can go to hell for all Dean cares, but Sam...Sam helped him get to Jim's and he _killed_Kubrick – Dean owes him one. No, more than one - Dean owes him a ton.

And by that reasoning, he figures he owes John, too. Except John's been a bastard to him, so maybe this just makes them even? Either way, _Sam_loves his Dad, so that means Dean's gotta watch out for the old man, too.

And then there's Jim...

"You stayed with the old guy?" Dean asks Robby, not taking his eyes off the Pastor, who's still staring at the two corpses outside his house.

"Yeah," Robby nods and Dean's pleased to see him smiling, seemingly forgetting about Gordon Walker for a moment.

"He treat you okay?"

Just because Pastor Jim didn't beat the shit out of _him _doesn't mean that Robby was so lucky. Dean's seen the religious shit in that house and the people into all of that are usually the sickest bastards of all.

"He's been real nice to me," Robby replies. "And he healed me, or _someone _healed me after..." Robby trails off and Dean rolls his eyes.

When they're back in their cell, he's gonna give Robby shit over this - but wait...they don't have a cell anymore. Leaning against the brick wall, just talking quietly over the sounds of confusion and anger and death, it's just like the old days...before John Winchester came along and took him from the life he understood and left Robby all alone and at the mercy of Gordon Walker.

"What about..." Dean gestures in the general area of his neck, indicating the crucifix Jim wears and Robby stares at the ground.

"I didn't tell him."

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He knew Robby wouldn't be dumb enough to fall into this whole 'taking care of you' bullshit that these guys keep talking about, but it's good to be sure.

"I just wanted him to keep being nice to me," Robby whispers, adjusting the brim of his cap and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"What the hell, Scrap? Why are you crying?" Dean frowns - he hates it when Robby cries; the guy's as bad as Sam for that sort of shit. In fact, the more he thinks about it, Sam and Robby would probably get along great. They could 'talk through their problems' and 'not fight' and whatever other warm, fuzzy crap they both buy into.

"If he tries to hurt you, I'll kick the shit out of him," Dean assures the younger man, narrowing his eyes as he glares at the Pastor.

"No, you don't get it," Robby shakes his head. "He didn't hit me, not once. He didn't beat me or nothing and he gave me food and it didn't make me sick. I got a blanket and everything! They made me better at his house and afterwards he was...he was _nice_, Dean."

"Ain't no such thing as 'nice'," Dean mutters under his breath.

"Do you think if I told him, then maybe -."

"No!" Dean replies automatically, immediately recognizing what Robby is trying to say. "No way, Scrap. You _can't_tell him, okay? You can't tell _anyone_."

"But, Dean -."

"But _nothing_, Robby!" Dean replies, fighting to keep his voice at a low enough volume that the Pastor won't pick up on their conversation. "You can't tell him. You hear me? You _can't_."

Robby sighs at that, poking dejectedly at the muddy earth, and Dean rolls his eyes again.

"Look, Scrap, you're smarter than this. He's one of those Jesus-freaks, like Kubrick. You know what that means." Dean points to Kubrick's corpse for effect, shuddering as he remembers what the crazy bastard put them both through.

"But I looked at him, I mean properly looked," Robby taps his temple pointedly, "and his aura, it's like...he's nice, you know? He's a nice person, Dean."

"Quit saying that," Dean growls. "Nice, nice, nice - there's no such fucking thing as a 'nice person', you know that."

"I know what I saw," Robby replies defensively. "And I know he's looked after you - he told me so."

"He's lying," Dean replies automatically.

"He said he took off your binding contract, and it's gone. I can't see it any more, those runes, I can't see them."

"Yeah, but...it, it hurt!" Dean argues, not liking this conversation at all. He doesn't know what Jim's been doing to brainwash Robby, but he needs to be wary of it.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter." Dean pauses, actually...this _does_matter! "You trust him more than you trust me? Is that it?"

"No!" Robby protests immediately. "No, Dean, you know I don't, but he's gonna find out eventually, right? I already fixed your hand. They're gonna ask questions."

_Damn_. He'd forgotten about that.

"So they know you can heal, big deal," he shrugs. "But that's only half the deal, just keep quiet about the rest of it and..." Dean trails off, not knowing what to say. He's in so far over his head here...it was hard enough trying to deal with these guys on his own, but now he's got to look out for Robby, too.

"I don't think these guys are as dumb as Walker and Kubrick," Robby replies cautiously, keeping his voice quiet as Pastor Jim begins to approach them.

"Well," Dean mutters under his breath as he watches the Pastor draw closer, "I guess we're about to find out."

* * *

**AN: Well ok everyone, I hope you enjoyed that. Just a note, I'm changing the warnings in this fic to 'character death' instead of 'minor character death' this is because, even though I consider Gordon Walker a pretty minor character, I know some people might not do. Futhermore, a person who's a minor character in the show might be a recurring or main character in the fic and I just want to keep all my bases covered. Dean and Sam will definetly, 100% not die so please don't worry about that. Please message me if there's any concern about this. Thank you very much and I hope you have a brilliant new year. **


	33. Chapter 33

**AN: Hi everyone. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks very much for all your lovely reviews. To the person that left me the really long review, it wasn't signed so I couldn't reply in private but concrit is very very welcome and thank you for taking the time to do it. I didn't realise that I as swicthing POV too much or that it was confusing so I've tried to adress that in this chapter! **

Chapter Thirty Three

John watches asHendrickson charges towards them, flanked on either side by two officers that John doesn't recognise. All three of them are toting P-90s, dressed to the nines in riot gear.

_That_ _must've been what took them so long_, John muses.

"Winchester!" Hendrickson bellows at him as he races forwards, his panic almost comical in the face of John's resigned calm.

"Good evening, Officer Hendrickson," he greets the man with a sarcastic smile.

"Thirty-five residents hammering on my door at nine pm screaming at me that demons have somehow managed to tread on holy ground, in our **camp**? Not my idea of a good evening, John."

"Yeah, and fighting for my life for half an hour while you three chumps get your asses in gear isn't mine, either."

John feels a little guilty for his harsh words. He's never had much of a problem with Hendrickson. The guy's a glorified traffic warden in John's eyes, hadn't even finished the police academy before Gate went down. But the man is usually pretty dependable and nine times out of ten, John agrees with his decisions.

He just needs to stall the guy long enough to buy enough time for Jim to herd Robby out of sight. _Dean, _on the other hand...

"Dean, come here."

John glances behind him, noting the look of resentment on his son's face. He can't help but smile wryly; it's so nice to see his boy showing a somewhat normal reaction to being told his friend has to stay out of sight and _away _from Dean for the next few minutes, instead of just the miserable acceptance John's used to seeing from his son.

And it's even nicer to see that Dean's apparently mutilated hand is in one, perfect piece. Did he imagine it?

_Must've been some fucking trick of the light, _John muses, remembering with uncomfortable clarity the image of blood and bone and flesh...

"Dean, this is Agent Hendrickson," John explains, clearing his mind of those disturbing thoughts (_for now_). His son comes to stand beside him, still that irritating couple inches out of touching distance.

"Agent Hendrickson this is-"

"_Dean?_" The agent cuts him off, staring at the younger Winchester with a look of shock and disbelief. "As in **the **Dean? _**Your boy**_ Dean?"

"That's him," John replies and he can't stop the smile spreading across his face. "My boy Dean."And that just sounds so _right_.

"Well...er, it's good to meet you, Dean," Agent Hendrickson stammers out, extending a trembling hand. "We all thought you were....well, we thought the worst."

_Damn right you did, _John thinks bitterly,remembering with perfect clarity the day Hendrickson had told him they were giving up the search for Dean.

"_We don't even know if he made it out of Kansas_," Hendrickson had told him. _"We just don't have the men to search for someone who could be hundreds of miles away. Not when there's hunters, __**our **__hunters, lost just outside the boundaries."_

And some tiny, rational part of John Winchester had understood, had known that if he were an outsider looking in he'd be siding with the calm, rational security officer, not the weeping, bedraggled father.

But that part was drowned out by the raw instinct that churned through his veins with every beat of his heart and emerged from his mouth as desperate, broken protest.

"_But he's my __**son**__!" _

Twenty years ago, Victor Hendrickson had been a younger, gentler man, still coming to terms with his own losses in the wake of Gate and, in hindsight, John knew the man had been sincere when he'd stared John in the eyes and replied:

"_I'm sorry."_

But then, blinded by grief, that calm, rational kernel of his former self had been swamped by a wave of agony and desperation and he'd swung at the man without even realizing he was planning on it.

"_You don't give a flying fuck!" _he'd screamed, not even recognizing his own hoarse, furious voice. _"Why? Huh? Why? Because he's just a child? Because he can't __**hunt**__? Because he can't gather your precious __**resources**__? Why isn't my boy worth searching for?" _

Hendrickson had pulled himself back upright while John ranted and his eyes were colder this time as he met John's eyes for the second time, his stare unwavering despite the bruise already forming on his cheek.

"_Because he's gone, John, and he's not coming back," _he'd answered and it wasn't until nineteen years later that the man would learn he was wrong.

John is jerked , back from the rushing memories into the present, by Hendrickson's voice.

"My name is Agent Hendrickson, camp security." Hendrickson extends his hand and John watches sorrowfully as Dean flinches minutely from the gesture and then simply stares, clearly not comprehending the action.

Hendrickson sighs, reluctantly withdrawing his hand and John tries not to blame the man for his reaction – he doesn't know what Dean's been through..._yet_.

"Alright, you're pissed, kid, I get it."

John knows from experience that Dean's silence is brought on by confusion and fear, not rudeness. Unfortunately, Agent Hendrickson doesn't have that luxury and John listens as the man tries to apologise to the sullen kid in front of him. The hunter knows he's taking a gamble, but it's about time Dean interacted with someone else remotely normal, even if that interaction is all one-sided. At least Dean might come away realising that it's not only John Winchester's family and friends that see him as a human being – that, in fact, Edwin and Walker were the exception and not the rule.

"For what it's worth, I _wanted _to keep searching for you, I did – I was green back then and I wanted to search for _everyon_e."

John realises then that he's never really heard Hendrickson's side of the story and he listens intently along with his son.

"But the decision was way out of my league. I was just the lucky guy who got to tell your old man."

Hendrickson's wry humour fails to draw a smile from either of the two Winchesters and the man sighs again, seemingly beginning to accept his cause to coax Dean into speaking to him as a hopeless one.

"So where've you been these last twenty years, Dean?"

John watches as his son swallows heavily and stares at the ground as he answers with one word that tells a thousand stories.

"Bait."

* * *

Dean chews on his bottom lip as he hears the shouting in the living room. Sam and John have been going at this for what feels like ages; Dean wishes Sam would teach him how to tell the time already so he'd know exactly how long it's been.

Anyway, it just goes to show that he was right and this whole family thing is load of shit.

_Take care of each of each other, my ass, _Dean thinks wryly as he hears something slam. He knows that he should take Robby and get out of here before John takes his anger out on _them, _too.

And he would...but it's _Sam_ in that other room and for some fucked up reason, he can't bring himself to leave Sam alone at the hands of a pissed off John Winchester. Not after....everything. Damn, he's turning into Robby with this mushy 'I'm your friend' crap.

"I'm sorry, Scrap," Dean whispers guiltily to the younger man, who is currently fast asleep. It's a testament to how exhausted the kid is that he hasn't even maneuvered into his usual sleeping position.

He can hear John's voice more clearly now - the man's closer to the door and Dean feels himself begin to tremble despite his every attempt to stop it.

_He's beat the shit out of Sam and now he's come for me..._

Dean turns wide, terrified eyes to the door as he hears another heavy, stomping footstep.

_He hasn't hit you yet_, he reminds himself, his voice pathetic and desperate in his mind as he tries futilely to calm himself down.

_He will...he's gonna...I don't want this._

It's not working. John's gonna beat him up and send him back and he's so, so fucking scared.

_**Run! **_he urges himself, but he can't, otherwise he would have been out of here ages ago and he doesn't even fucking know _why_. Why does he care if Sam Winchester gets hurt? Why _should_ he care? Sam Winchester didn't care when Dean was getting _his _ass kicked from one end of the cell block to the other every frickin' week. He doesn't care. He _doesn't_.

_Then why are you still here? _he taunts himself and he's almost grateful for the interruption of the door crashing open, despite the fear it brings.

Dean glances up nervously at the scowling man standing in the doorway and he's surprised to notice how tidy John still looks. There's not a speck of blood on him and his clothes aren't crumpled at all - from the looks of things Sam didn't even fight back.

That sounds like Sammy, not hurting his father just because he's 'family'.

'_Dean you __**hit **__Dad, that's so not cool." _

Sam's words echo in his ears - the first thing Sam had said to him after he'd recovered from the shock of being chained to the bed by his own father.

_And this ain't gonna be 'cool', either_, Dean thinks bitterly as he cringes away from John when he enters and slams the door closed behind him.

Dean knows he should be apologising, that maybe, just maybe, John might go easier on him if he shows how fucking terrified he really is. But he's shown weakness in front of this man one too many times already, and he'll be damned if he'll do it again.

So instead, he sets his mouth into the closest thing to a smirk he can manage and glares up at his father.

_Just bring it, old man_, he silently dares. _But don't expect me to just lie there and take it like Sam. _

John exhales deeply and Dean's relieved and a little confused to see some of the anger drain out of the man's face. He could almost swear he can see a...smile?

"He slept through that?" John gestures to Robby and Dean just nods, not knowing what else to do but tell the truth.

"Kid must've been wiped," John chuckles and Dean frowns before hitching in a nervous breath as the older man perches on the edge of the bed next to him.

"Sorry you had to listen to that, Dean," he says softly and Dean shrugs in response.

"Heard worse," he mumbles, staring at the floor and trying to will away the sounds of Robby's screams as Edwin beat him to within an inch of his life, the sounds of young girls screaming and crying as they suffered through things a seven–year-old boy shouldn't even know existed, let alone have to listen to, the sounds of death and pain and fear all day, every day – for twenty fucking years.

Dean squeezes his hands into tight, tight fists and digs the rough edges of his bitten down fingernails into his palm, letting the sharp pain distract him from his anger and the memories.

"Yeah..." John sighs, staring pointedly at Dean's fists. "I don't doubt it."

Dean doesn't know whether he should reply to that or not but he doesn't think he could even if he wanted to, not with the racket of memories crashing around in his head – why the fuck won't it _stop_?

"You want to tell me about it?" John asks and Dean hopes to hell that's not an order because he really, really doesn't. Not now, not ever – he _can't_.

The young man just barely manages to shake his head, his body wound so tight and tense that even that tiny movement is an effort.

"Alright," John replies so gently that Dean can't help but look up and double check that it _is _his father there and not Sam or someone else.

And that reminds him...

"Is Sam gonna be alright?" he hates himself for even wanting to ask the question, but he hates suspense even more and anything to get away from the subject of his past is a good thing.

_Well... _Dean considers Sam being hurt and shakes his head. Maybe _not __**everything**__._

After all, maybe Sam's condition isn't bad - maybe Robby will be able to deal with it. Dean's sure the kid would help Sam if Dean asked him to. Hell, who's he kidding? The kid would walk through fire if Dean asked him to – damn near _has_ on occasion....and Dean hates him for it. Sam's nearly as bad and Dean wants to just grab both of them and knock their heads together – he's not _worth_it, why can't they see that?

"God knows..." John rolls his eyes and Dean frowns. He'd always suspected John Winchester was a cold-hearted SOB - he had to be to sell his own kid into slavery, right? But now...actually seeing it for real it just doesn't seem to fit the man.

_Doesn't seem to fit him? What does that even __**mean**__? _God, this family shit is confusing!

"The boy won't listen to sense," John continues. "Or not from _me_at least."

Dean just listens and tries to understand what he's hearing. This whole time Sam and John have just been...talking? It doesn't make sense. And yet, when he takes into account the lack of blood and everything else...it kind of does. Except why the hell would John put up with someone yelling at him instead of kicking their ass?

"Kid thinks I'm a fossil...that I'm 'too old and stubborn to get it'." John adds air quotes and Dean tries not to laugh at the face John pulls. It's kind of weird to see the normally grouchy man mimicking his son and Dean finds himself relaxing.

"What's a fossil?" The words are out of his mouth before he realises he's even thought about saying them and he hastily adds "Sir" and hopes he hasn't just wiped out John's good humour by pissing him off.

"It's, er...something you dig up from the ground that's really damned old. Well, we used to before Gate, anyway."

Dean wonders why anyone would waste time doing that but decides not to press the issue.

"Do me a favour?" John asks as he rubs a hand across his eyes.

Dean's smart enough to recognise a command in disguise and he replies smartly. "Yes, Sir."

"Go see if you can get through to him."

"Me?" Dean can't help his incredulous response. "Sir, I...I ain't real good at talking. I...I don't..."

"Yeah, well, I think you get that from your old man," John replies with a rueful chuckle and Dean's frown deepens to the point where it actually hurts.

"I ain't expecting miracles - it's _Sammy, _after all. But, you know, you're his big brother, Dean. It's your job to look after him when I can't."

"It is?" Dean checks, his eyes widening with shock. How could he have been here all these weeks without anyone telling him this? "That's what I am now, Sir? A 'big brother', not bait?" Dean tries not to sound too hopeful, but God, keeping Sam safe sounds a hell of a lot better than being demon-bait.

"That's _who_ you are," John corrects with a gentle smile. "Dean Winchester, my son – the best big brother that kid could ever ask for."

Dean shakes his head unconsciously; he's not the best at...at _anything_. He's bait, the lowest form of...he's not even anything. Bait – a tool. A tool you use and beat up on and then lock away in the dark until – except he's not any more.

_Dean Winchester, son, big brother_. It just doesn't sound _right,_ but God how Dean wishes it did.

"Go on," John nudges him gently and Dean scrambles off the bed, chest heaving. But he's not hurt and John's still smiling gently at him.

"Go and prove me right, son. Prove it to Sam."

But as Dean walks to the door, towards his little brother, he's suddenly worried that this burden of big-brotherhood might be trickier than being bait after all.


	34. Chapter 34

John watches as the kid on the bed groans in his sleep, one thin arm rising sluggishly upwards to rest over his eyes as he tries valiantly to get back to sleep. John chuckles a little despite himself before clearing his throat and announcing loudly,

"It ain't quite bedtime yet, kid."

Well, that's something of a lie. Hunters tend to go to bed in the early evening so they can squeeze as much activity into the daylight as necessary. Life's a bitch without electricity and their batteries from before 'Gate will only last so long. The solar panels would be great if it didn't take them months to store any energy and if the precious energy that _is_ gleaned from the weak sunlight wasn't being wasted on that useless, annoying iris scanner at the gates.

But this isn't the time to go into one of his anti-government rants. He needs to be doing his job both as a father and a citizen by making sure this Robby kid isn't a threat to his family or the camp. The boy might have passed Pastor Murphy's test but John's standards and paranoia are far higher and stronger than his old friend's.

_And that_, John reasons, _is the reason I don't get ambushed in my own house_. He's being unfair, of course, totally unfair but his friend has just been attacked and he can either get scared or get angry and John Winchester doesn't _do _scared.

"I - I'm sorry," John watches as Robby pulls himself up to a sitting position. Christ, he can see the boy trembling from here.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I'm real sorry. I didn't mean to...De- the bait said "

"His name is Dean." John cuts the boy's rambling apology short not with the gentle reassurance that he should have used, but with a forceful, quick correction that causes the blonde boy to flinch away from him minutely.

"I....sorry?"

_Shit_, John thinks worriedly. The kid's probably only saying what they taught him to say and, as much as he hates to hear of his son referred to with that sickening word, he shouldn't take it out on this boy.

But god dammit, he needs to take it out on _someone_ or he's gonna lose it. He's been doing his damned best to be calm and patient around Dean, but he can only bottle everything up for so long...he has no idea how Murphy can stay calm enough to explain to Hendrickson about the ambush of his own house without flying off the handle. Then again, John doesn't think he's ever seen Pastor James Murphy fly off the handle at _anything_.

"What's your name?"John asks the boy, who's now sitting up on the bed. He decides to not even acknowledge the fiasco that was his first attempt at a conversation with his new houseguest.

The boy pauses for a minute before replying quietly, "Scrap, Sir."

John narrows his eyes at the lie but takes a deep breath before replying – he only wishes Sammy would _see _how hard he was trying to better himself. It was _hard _for an old man like him to change and he's never been patient, even _before _'Gate.

"Ok, and how about your _real _one?" John asks, determinedly meeting the boy's eyes despite how the kid tries to look away.

There's a pause that lasts _just _long enough to be uncomfortable before the boy answers.

"Robert Singer, Sir." Another pause, a little less awkward. "I think."

"You think?" John questions. Somewhere his conscience is begging him to notice the kid's fear, to reassure him that it's ok, to _remember _what this kid has probably gone through. But that would mean remembering those horrific scars on his eldest son's arm and no fucking way is he going to dwell on _that_. Not when it's much easier to listen to the voice that's telling him to focus on how this boy was wearing something that belonged to his dead best friend.

Robby just nods, biting down nervously on his lip.

_Nice going, jackass, _John berates himself, his thoughts echoing with more than a tinge of Sammy's voice. _Now he won't even __**talk**__ let alone tell the truth. _

"And how'd ya get a name like that?" the hunter asks_, _impressed with the steadiness of his voice – he's old and after the talk he just had with Dean, there's no denying that he's not the gruff, macho SOB he pretends to be, not deep down, anyway. But he can still _act _like he is and this kid sure as hell doesn't know any better.

"I found it," the boy answers, his eyes flickering over John's form in a way that's so goddamn freaky that John can't help but bristle as he answers sarcastically.

"Oh, right. You probably found it shoved down the back of the couch, right?"

"No, Sir," the boy answers, apparently not noticing John's sarcasm. "I ain't allowed to sit on the couch. Only the trainers can do that and Master Edwin and...sometimes De- the b..." the boy gulps before continuing his sentence, his voice trailing off to a whisper. "And sometimes Dean if he's with Mr. Walker and he's been good."

John's too focused on the fact that Robby just mentioned Gordon Walker and Dean in the same sentence to care about the flinch the boy gave as he finally stammered out Dean's name.

He wants to ask more. Hell, he wants to beg and plead and scream for even one more insight into his son's upbringing, one glimpse into those two decades he's missed out on, one tiny scrap of knowledge to help him understand his boy.

But he won't. He'll focus on the matter at hand. After all, this kid isn't going anywhere for a while yet. Jim won't be back from Security for a good couple of hours and even then John doesn't expect Dean will be willing to let Robby out of his sight again. And what Dean wants, Sammy argues for...and argues and argues and argues...

Throughout John's silence, Robby still hasn't offered up any conversation, those gray eyes just staring at his chest, at his legs, and occasionally to his face for a brief second. John rolls his eyes in annoyance. He can feel the calm state he'd managed to keep hold of throughout his earlier conversation with Dean trickling through his fingers.

"So Mommy and Daddy gave you a name before they sold you off, huh?"

He's being harsh, ridiculously harsh. He has no doubt that this kid's parents were just as distraught to lose their child as he had been to lose Dean (if they had lived long enough to experience it, of course), but if provoking the kid is the only way to get him to talk, then John's not going to lose sleep over it. The kid might be able to get around Jim with nicknames and the odd 'Sir' here and there, but John's not so easily swayed.

The boy looks down then and John breathes a silent sigh of relief to be free of the weight of that oppressive gaze. His answer, when it finally comes, is petulant and miserable, and John, who'd prepared himself for a Dean-esque onslaught of 'fuck yous', finds himself not exactly sure what to say next. For once, however, Robby speaks for him.

"They didn't sell me to Master Edwin. They just left me."

"Left you?" John echoes. "What, on his doorstep? Sorry to break it to you, kid, but that don't make it any better. At least if they'd sold you they would have had some motivation for dumping you."

"They left me at the house, after 'Gate. It was on fire," Robby replies, his forehead creasing as he concentrates on...John has no idea what's going on this boy's head. "Master Edwin's men found me and took me to him. He saved my life. He's looked after me since, said I was 'one of his kids."

"And yet your name's Robert Singer, not Robert Edwin. That doesn't add up."

"I told you, I found it!" the kid replies. John can hear the desperation in the boy's voice, a saddening mixture of fear, loneliness, confusion and exhaustion, like he's trying to muster up the bitterness that tinges Dean's responses but he can't quite muster up the anger. It's nearly enough to make the hunter want to cut the kid some slack. Almost. Because despite how smart and tough John thinks he's being, the fact is he's still no fucking closer to finding out how this boy, who just happens to be his son's best friend, managed to get a hold of Bobby Singer's baseball cap. And _that_pisses him off to no end.

"When we were little, Edwin didn't like Dean being called...well, anything. He said he was bait and...and that's what we all had to call him."

None of this is news to John, but the pain at being reminded of his son's past is still there and it gets worse every time he has to think about it.

"But - but Dean said it wasn't," the kid continues, "and when I asked him how he knew, he showed me his tee shirt. There was writing on the inside of it and he said it spelled Dean, but he couldn't read the other word cuz it was too long."

The kid finally pauses to take a breath and John would use this pause to interrupt...if he could breathe. Because god he _remembers _Mary sewing nametags into the back of Dean's clothes, remembers watching his wife sewing by the fireside while he sat down and spelled out the letters to Dean, who copied them over and over.

The last birthday card he'd gotten, on his last birthday before the world went to hell, Dean had signed his _own _name and boy had he been proud of himself. John smiles softly at the memory until he tries to conjure up the memory of that childish scrawl and all he can see are the ragged capital letters that trail down his eldest son's forearm and...fuck it, he doesn't want to think about that.

"There's a name in my clothes, too, in my hat. Dean got Mr. Walker to read it. It says 'Robert Singer'. That's where I found it. That's how you figure your name out, right?"

John knows the boy is talking, but it's Mary's voice that he's hearing, her soft, gentle tones speaking as the conscience he should have listened to before this whole screwed-up conversation even started

_He's just a little boy, John. A little boy who our eldest son cares about. He's trusted you to stay with him, so what's he going to think when he comes back and finds the little lamb scared out of his wits?_

John really can't imagine Dean referring to his scruffy-looking buddy as a 'little lamb', but the point is valid. John runs a hand though his hair and sighs deeply before replying.

"Ok, Robby. Scrap. I'm sorry." Damn, he hates apologizing.

The kid just stares at him blankly, not understanding, and his voice when he replies is quiet and childlike. "Did I get it wrong?"

"No...no, kid, it's not that. Just...just listen to me, ok?"

"Yes, Sir." Robby nods, his eyes wide and earnest.

"Ok...listen. I had a friend a long time ago and his name was Robert Singer, too." John keeps his words simple and his tone light, trying to keep any hint of accusation from his voice. How would _Mary _have spoken with this kid?

"And he had a hat, just like yours, only he lost it twenty years ago." John pauses, letting Robby absorb his words. "I think it might be the same hat."

There, he's said it. Now the ball is in this kid's court. John waits patiently in the silence...for a whole five seconds before rolling his eyes and prompting the kid to speak.

"Where did you get it? I'm not angry, I just want to know."

"You are angry," Robby counters timidly. "I know you are."

John sighs in frustration, but he can't exactly blame the kid for pointing out his obvious lie. He was hardly discreet with his anger and suspicion earlier.

"Ok, ok. I _am _angry," the hunter admits. "But not with you. My friend who used to have that hat, he died a long time ago and it makes me angry to think he was taken away from me."

Robby nods, a genuine look of understanding in those expressive eyes.

"I used to get mad when they took Dean away," he replies and John nods, fighting the urge to just yell at the kid to tell him where he got the damned hat. They've been at this for so long and gotten pretty much nowhere and John just doesn't want to hear about the hell of his son's upbringing, he _can't _hear it right now.

Luckily the boy seems to pick up on his irritation and quickly resumes speaking. "Edwin's men...or man...Kubrick, actually, he um...he said I was sleeping with it, in my crib. He took it with us, put it over my head to protect my eyes from the smoke."

John feels sick. He remembers swapping stories with Bobby down at the bar, exchanging stories of their sons and rueing the days they'd ever become parents as they swallowed down Jack Daniels just like when they were teens.

"_It's bad enough Helen won't let me buy up that old storage yard that's for sale_ _since 'we have a kid to think about now'."_

John had snorted at Bobby's impression of his wife's delicate nagging.

"_But now the damn brat's stealing my hat as well as my dream?!" _Bobby had roared with mock indignation and John had roared with laughter.

"_He's got you wrapped around his little finger already, Bobby, and he ain't even out of diapers."_

Bobby had rolled his eyes, groaning dramatically as he took another swig of his whiskey.

"_I'm telling ya John, this wouldn't have happened if I'd got my way. 'Robert Singer, Junior' wouldn't cry all night long." _

"_I dunno, Bob, I'm not sure it matters what you call 'em." _John had smirked.

"_Nope," _Bobby had shaken his head, the whiskey in his glass swilling precariously close to the brim as Bobby gestured animatedly. _"I'm telling ya, she gave him a girly name and he's acting all girly because of it. Robert Singer Junior wouldn't need some grubby old hat for comfort..."_

John had just smiled bemusedly as he listened to his friends slightly alcohol-induced ramblings. _"If you say so."_

"_Yup." _Bobby had nodded. _"I mean...Isaac? Why in the hell did I agree to that?"_

"_You were probably drunk," _John had chuckled and Bobby had raised his eyebrows, grinning sheepishly at his friend.

"_Me? Drunk?" _The man had taken a gulp of whiskey before belching loudly and slamming the glass down onto the table and waiting for a beat before speaking, "_Never."_

John had laughed, shaking his head in delighted exasperation. _"Seriously, Bobby; Isaac isn't a girly name. It's in the goddamn Bible."_

"_And since when do you care so much about the Bible?" _Bobby had said dismissively.

"_Since when do you care about that stupid old cap?" _John had countered, sipping at his whiskey as he savoured the comeback.

"_Hey, I love that hat," _Bobby had replied, _"Dammit, John, why can't he just be happy with a teddy bear or something? Why is it __**my **__hat and __**only **__my hat that stops his crying?"_

"_Because..." _John had replied, gulping down the final mouthful of his drink. _"He wouldn't be Bobby Singer's son if he wasn't a stubborn, annoying_, _moody..."_

"_Alright, alright," _Bobby cut John off, holding his hands up in mock surrender. _"I give in, the kid can have the damn hat!"_

John swallows past the lump that's suddenly risen in his throat and stares at the kid on the bed. There's Bobby Singer staring back at him. Not the grizzled, cynical, weary old hunter who, along with John, had grown into the mindset of an old man far too fast.

No, he sees his young coworker, the young man who'd sing tunelessly along to the radio as they fixed up cars they both knew they'd never be able to afford. The Bobby Singer who'd insisted that if any friend of his bought a VW van, he'd disown him and had promptly steered him in the direction of John's beloved Impala, which John had instantly fallen in love with.

And then John blinks and the image is gone, this kid's more youthful features in place and those murky eyes staring at him curiously. John coughs to clear his throat before speaking.

"Sorry, kid, you uh...you remind me of him."

"Of Robert Singer? The other Robert Singer?" the kid's eyes are beaming, somehow sensing that this is a compliment, but John can't even force himself to smile, the heavy weight of his heart dragging his spirits even further into the melancholy he's created for himself by dredging up the past like that. He'd promised himself he wouldn't remember that stuff. Remembering the good times just made the present even worse.

_Godammit, Winchester, get a hold of yourself, _the hunter berates himself and he manages to nod as he replies hoarsely. "Yeah."

"Oh," the kid smiles again briefly before seemingly noticing John's demeanour and he looks away, staring at his hands clasped lightly in his lap. "I'm sorry."

John looks up at that. Now it's his turn to stare and he looks the boy dead in the eyes as he replies. "So am I, kid."

And that's the most heartfelt thing John's said through this whole conversation. Because he _knows_, however much he might wish it, that this boy _isn't_ Isaac Singer, that he _can't be_Isaac Singer. The memory of Bobby rushing into the inferno that used to be his house, screaming the names of his wife and child, oblivious to John's protests, haunts John as much as the screams of that same man dying does.

"_Don't look up, Bobby!" _John had yelled when it was obvious the man was going into that house no matter what, the memory of his beautiful wife lying impossibly on the ceiling like something out of a nightmare had been sickeningly fresh in his mind. He didn't want Bobby to have to live with that image. _"Don't look up..."_

And Bobby hadn't looked up. He'd rushed straight into the nursery, taken one look at his baby boy lying still in his crib and charged straight forwards with another roar of anguish.

John had stood transfixed, clutching Sammy in his arms as Bobby performed CPR on the smoke-stained body of his baby son.

"_Come on, Isaac, come on, please...."_

And then John had looked away, tears falling down his cheeks as he suddenly realised that this really was Hell, that the world was going to pieces around them and his Dean was still nowhere to be seen.

"_Come on, Zach, please...come on, breathe for Daddy..."_

It was as though the anguish was contagious, and faced with such an obvious outpouring of pain, John couldn't keep his composure anymore and he'd screamed his eldest son's name, only to have it lost in the din of chaos all around them.

"_Isaac! Come on! Don't do this! Breathe, come on..."_

John had clutched at random passersby as they fled from their homes, some with families, some without, everyone taking a different, frantic route to nowhere because there _was _no escape from the chaos – this was Hell on Earth and it had started right on their doorstep.

"_Have you seen a little boy? Have you seen my son? Dean? Have you seen my boy? He's..."_

But no one could find it within themselves to offer the broken, half-crazy man even a glance let alone a reply, their own racing survival instincts driving them _away _from yet another source of danger.

"_Isaac..."_

Throughout everything Sammy didn't even cry, even when John brokenly sobbed Dean's name, pressing his brow against little Sammy's to remind himself that he had to focus, that he still had _one _of his sons that he had to be strong for.

"_Isaac, please..."_

The howl when Bobby finally realised he wasn't going to be able to bring his son back to life, that his child was dead, was agony personified and John had collapsed to his knees beside his best friend, Sammy still nestled in his arms, and wept alongside him.

That scream echoes in John's thoughts whenever he thinks of Isaac Singer, whenever he looks at this boy seated before him, and he'll never be able to forget it. He'll never _let _himself forget it, never let himself believe that Isaac Singer could be anything but a skeleton now, buried by John's own hand because Bobby just couldn't bring himself to bury his own child.

John allows himself one last look at the boy on the bed before forcing his eyes and his thoughts away. There's some other explanation for this and he isn't going to let wishful thinking kid him into believing that this boy might be Bobby's kid, that some part of his friend might still be alive.

He stands up then, the pain of that night, of _Bobby's _pain, too much to handle and he feels overwhelmed with the need to see his boys again. To just double check that they're still there, that they're not lost to him.

He pauses once in the doorway, glancing back to the boy before shaking his head sadly and repeating his earlier sentiments.

"So am I..."


	35. Chapter 35

**  
AN: Hi everyone. FIrst off I want to apolgise for the delay, as some of you know I've had blood poisoning and therefore haven't exactly been in the condition to write or really do very much at all. BUT I am now recovered and very thankful to the NHS for getting me back on my feet (or foot)!**

**Secondly, this chapter is UNBETAD. If anyone fancies betaing, please give me a shout. I take criticism very well. My email is ItalianMaz2(at)hotmail(dot)com or I can be PM'd. Apologies for any mistakes - sceptecimia and lack of beta do not a good chapter make...**

Chapter Thirty Five

It takes Sam a good sixty seconds at least before the realisation of what he's done manages to force its way into his stupefied thought processes. He can see the blonde man lying on the ground only a few feet away and yet all he can do is stand and stare, oddly fascinated by the red crimson puddle spreading around the man's body.

"I did that," he whispers to no-one, unnecessarily reminding himself of the unforgettable truth. "I shot him."

But that just sounds all wrong. Sam Winchester doesn't shoot people - Wendigos and Raw heads and Strigas, sure, but not people. Shooting people isn't hunting, it's murder.

"Oh my God."

He feels sick; what the hell had he been thinking? He just killed…_fuck_, he doesn't even know the guy's **name**. He just killed a man and he doesn't even know the guy's name.

His own heart thuds in his chest and combined with the rushing in his ears, the sound of his father emptying the remainder of his pistol into Gordon Walker's corpse is little more than a tinny echo that's so distant it couldn't possibly have anything to do with Sam.

And somewhere, amidst all the chaos is Dean's voice calling him...

"Sam? Sam?!"

Sam jolts at the feel of a hand on his shoulder and finds himself looking into his big brother's worried eyes.

_A flashback? Can you really have a flashback to something that only happened a couple of hours ago? It felt so real..._

"Dean?"

As Sam continues to stare at his older brother, he's suddenly aware of how much his brother must still be going through. That flashback had felt so real, so vivid, more real even than the crazy visions he's been having lately – Dean's probably dealing with flashbacks like this on a regular basis with memories much worse than Sam's own.

_No! _Sam protests angrily, stopping that train of thought. _It's always poor little Dean, but __**I **__stood up for him, __**I **__helped him and I __**killed **__for him! Can't it just be about me for once?_

Dean jerks his hand away then, shuffling away from Sam and seating himself in his usual position at the other end of the couch.

"You okay?" The elder man asks gruffly and Sam shrugs, staring into the middle distance.

"Did Dad send you in here?" he asks with a hint of bitterness, already knowing the answer. Of course Dean wouldn't come and visit him of his own accord, even after everything, the older man still seems determined to see him as a bad guy.

_Yeah, because doing that ritual without his permission wasn't something a bad guy would do... _Sam scowls at the sound of the voice in his head. The persistent nagging guilt over his part in the ritual still bugs him nearly every day. He **knows **he needs to admit it to Dean, to get it out in the open, but he just can't find the right moment. It'd probably help if they got a minute's peace around here!

"Kinda," Dean replies quietly, seemingly unnerved by Sam's unusual silence.

_Maybe now he can see what I have to deal with when I try and talk to __**him**__, _Sam thinks, not even glancing at Dean as the man replies.

"But then, I kinda wanted to come anyway, sort of," Dean reluctantly admits and Sam tries not to smile. It's surprising how much of their father he can see in Dean considering the two men were only in each other's lives for four years.

Normally Sam would prompt for more information but he really doesn't want to hear anything about their father right now. Not after the argument they just had - one of the worst arguments they've had for a long time. And besides, as much as he loves Dean, he's just **not **in the mood for conversation.

He just **killed **a man for crying out loud, he just became a **murderer**. He doesn't _deserve _to have a normal conversation in a normal house, he should be down the mines or or something.

"John said...he said you two had an argument," Dean breaks the silence again but Sam can only bring himself to shrug; him and Dad arguing - big shocker. It happens so often these days it's not even worth talking about.

"He didn't hit you though," Dean supplies with a tiny flicker of a smile.

"Dad wouldn't hit me," Sam replies in a monotone, more out of habit than anything else.

Dean looks away then chewing on his bottom lip before speaking again. "You're lucky."

Sam whirls to face his brother then, anger dancing in his eyes. "Lucky?!" Dean flinches briefly but Sam's too incredulous to care. "I just **murdered** someone, Dean and all my father can say is that I shouldn't feel guilty, that I 'have to learn to with it'. You think that's lucky? My own father thinks I'm freak because I feel guilty for killing a human being – how the hell does that make me 'lucky'?"

Dean doesn't answer for a little while and Sam feels annoyingly guilty. When he's less pissed off and terrified he's going to regret how he handled this situation. Right now though it's all he can do to keep himself together, he just doesn't have the energy to worry about Dean.

"I thought he was gonna beat the crap out of you," Dean states, looking briefly to the bedroom door.

"I already told you-" Sam begins exasperatedly but Dean interrupts.

"Yeah, he won't hit you, I know...I mean. I-I know you **say **that but..."

"But what?" Sam asks, feeling some of his anger dissipate at the thought of _finally _getting a glimpse into what goes through his brother's head about their father.

"But...you know..." Dean shrugs, glancing at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. "It's just a little hard to believe."

And Sam's stony resolve crumbles at that. He's stubborn, he can admit that, but he's curious too and he might be getting another insight into his brother's past here. And besides, anything that gets his mind off...off what he did can only be a good thing at the minute.

The young hunter sighs, leaning forward and rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Sorry, Dean...I'm sorry."

"Sorry about what?" Dean asks, still obviously confused with the concept of apology and what little anger Sam has left disappears at that.

"I'm being a jerk," Sam replies sadly, before adding, with tiny glimmer of a smile, "I told you to tell me when I was being a jerk to you."

"You are?" Dean sounds genuinely confused and Sam wonders how he could ever have been angry with his vulnerable older brother in the first place – if only the guy wasn't so good at putting on a brave face.

"Yeah...I mean, it's no excuse to be a jerk but I'm upset and pissed off and scared and..." Sam trails off feeling suddenly stupid in front of Dean. He's just waiting for the older man to tell him to 'suck it up, and 'deal with it' just like John had done, the pair of them are so similar when it comes to hiding their emotions.

Instead, to Sam's surprise, Dean falters and then shuffles an inch or two closer before gently lifting the chain of his amulet over his head. The elder man strokes a thumb over it longingly before placing it gently in the empty seat between him and Sam.

"Dean?" Sam prompts when the elder man doesn't offer an explanation.

"You said..." Dean won't look at him, a blaring indication of how nervous he is. "You said, when I get scared and start acting like a jerk, that I should look at that and remember there's nothing to be scared of."

Sam tries to keep the surprise off his face but inside he's smiling, he hadn't thought Dean cared at all about anything he said but Dean **had **been listening and had even remembered.

"Does it work?" the younger Winchester asks Dean with a gentle smile.

Dean shrugs, still not making eye contact "S'just a dumb necklace," he mumbles, but far from being down-hearted and his big brother's apparent dismissal, Sam's cheering inside because Dean's clearly lying.

"Then why don't you keep it?" Sam suggests and the flash of relief that crosses Dean's face is palatable.

"There is stuff to be scared of, Sam," Dean speaks quietly as he hooks the chain of the amulet round his neck once more. "But maybe not...maybe not here, in this house."

Sam nods slowly, figuring out what Dean's trying to say. "Dad and I, we'd never hurt you Dean, never."

"You're different," Dean agrees. "Is it 'cos we're family?"

"Yeah," Sam agrees. He figures it's easier for Dean to accept his brother and his father as exceptions to the rule and for him to consider his upbringing the norm. They'll deal with that later, for now the fact that Dean trusts them, or is _trying _to at least, is a big enough step for now.

"So then...why are you scared and upset and....whatever other bull- I mean, whatever else?"

Sam scowls at Dean's almost slip of the tongue.

"John won't beat the crap out of you so what is there to be scared of?"

"Of..."

_Disappointing him. _Sam knows the answer, has known it his whole life, but now, faced with Dean's bluntness, he has no choice but to admit it to himself – something he's been avoiding for about...oh...twenty years or so.

He'd thought Dad would have been proud of him for protecting Dean, for coming to the rescue at Pastor Jim's but all the man had done was criticise him and belittle him for being upset over what had happened. But Dean wouldn't get that – couldn't get that. Dean had probably forgotten what it was like to be praised, Sam somehow doubted it was something Jeremy Edwin did a lot.

"It's just...I can't explain it," Sam stammers. "He thinks I shouldn't be upset even though I killed that man." It feels surprisingly relaxing to talk to Dean. His brother is judgemental, of course, and probably thinks he's a loser but at least he **listens** which is more than can be said for Dad. Twenty years as bait and Dean still manages more manners than their father - that just says it all about John Winchester's social skills.

"You're upset about that?" For the second time that day, Dean seems confused and surprised by something that really should be completely obvious. Sam had thought he understood his brother, thought that once Dean realised that he wasn't going to be hurt anymore he'd be alright. He'd be....normal. Only now he's realising how far from normal Dean really is. Dean's got more issues than a constant fear of harm. A lot more.

"It's _wrong_, Dean. It's wrong to kill a human being," Sam declares emphatically. He's pretty certain no one has ever taught Dean that lesson and, from what the youngest Winchester has seen today, he doubts that Dad's likely to teach him either.

"But they were gonna kill you," Dean argues, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration.

"Technically, they were going to kill **you**," Sam shrugs and Dean pauses thoughtfully.

"And you killed them and stopped them?" he finishes tentatively and Sam nods. That **is **what happened but Dean's making it sound so noble, so heroic so...justified. It's none of that crap – it's murder; bloody, violent murder.

"And you're upset because you made a mistake?" Dean is sounding increasingly bewildered and Sam growls with frustration. He doesn't want to think about this, doesn't want to be second guessing himself. Killing is wrong, it's always wrong.

"I shouldn't have killed him." Sam answers vaguely, hoping Dean will get the hint and drop it.

"You should have let him kill me, I guess," Dean reluctantly agrees and Sam shakes his head. Of course Dean wouldn't get the hint, when does Dean _ever _get the hint?

"That's not what I'm saying," he insists, his brain aching with the complexity of it all.

"But it's true anyway," Dean replies sadly. "He's a trainer, one of Edwin's favourites and I'm...I'm just-"

"Don't say it, Dean," Sam threatens, feeling nauseated at the thought of hearing Dean speak about himself that way. "You're not bait, okay, you're Dean Winchester, my big brother, you're not bait. You are not bait." Sam stares straight into Dean's eyes as he speaks; it's almost like if he repeats the same sentiment enough times he can _force _it into his brother's head. "Get it?"

"Not to you guys maybe," Dean reluctantly agrees, his hand toying absently with the pendant hung round his neck. "But to him, to everyone else, to...to me...he's worth more."

Sam watches his brother with sorrowful eyes. He's seen Dean upset before, of course, Dean's almost constantly upset, but this is different. Instead the harsh, bitter anger that usually seeps out of every pore there's just sadness. The same type of sadness he'd seen when Dean had told him about Edwin's 'reading lessons'.

_This_, he's beginning to recognise. _Is Dean when he feels safe enough not to lash out._

He's not sure, of course – who could ever be sure what's going on in Dean's head? But it makes sense. The first instance of this was when Dean had been sure Sam was leading him to be 'punished' anyway, the second when Sam was chained up and couldn't hurt him...but now...now, in theory, there's nothing stop Sam hurting Dean. So maybe Dean is gaining a little trust after all...it's a glimmer of hope anyway.

"He's not worth more than you, Dean." Sam replies softly, "No one in their right mind would think that."

"I think it," Dean answers quietly, "I _know _it."

"You can't know it because it's not true," Sam replies stubbornly. His heart twinges a little; if anyone were to walk in on their conversation they'd just see it as some harmless, brotherly banter. If only.

"You don't even know him," Dean counters dismissively and Sam runs a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, I killed a man I knew nothing about," the young man admits, feeling the guilt starting to creep back.

"You knew he was gonna kill me, that he tried to kill John and Pastor Jim, that he chained Robby up outside that time and then came to take him from Pastor Jim."

"All I needed to know was the first thing you said," Sam replies, his voice quiet as he realises that, despite how bad he feels, if he were put in the same situation, he'd shoot the man dead again. He doesn't want to dwell on what kind of person that makes him, for now it's just easier to have the weight of regret off his shoulders. How can he regret something he'd do again?

"I-I can tell you more about him...if you want to know it?" Dean suggests and, although Sam would rather talk about anything **but **the man he just murdered, he's still desperately curious to know about Dean's past.

So, the younger Winchester smiles and nods at his brother as he lies. "Yeah, I'd like that."


	36. Chapter 36

**AN: Thank you very much to Rae Artemis and ****aquaesulis76**** for a BRILLIANT beta! There are some semi-graphic mentions of abuse in this chapter.**

Chapter Thirty Six

John watches as Robby pretends to sleep. The brim of Bobby Singer's cap is pulled down over the boy's eyes, partly hiding his face and John fights the urge to snatch it for himself. What right does this kid have pretending to be one of the Singer family?

_John_, he reprimands himself, straightening up and taking a step back from the bed. Chances are Edwin just found the cap lying around the streets somewhere, after all, it hadn't been in the crib when Bobby had rushed in. Or had it? It wasn't exactly something _either _of them had been worried about at the time– their dead and missing children more of a concern.

A 'concern', John snorts bitterly, that's one way to put it.

_It doesn't matter, _John insists to himself. God _this_is why he never thinks about the past; too many memories to suck him in, too many mistakes to dwell on, so many 'what if's that he could spend a lifetime considering them. But he knows damned well that it won't change anything; it won't stop 'Gate from happening, won't bring Isaac or Bobby Singer back to life, won't give his eldest son twenty years of his life back...won't change a fucking thing.

_So stop_ _dwelling on it, _the hunter orders himself, cramming his miserable, self-indulgent thoughts of the past to the back of his brain where they belong and switching his focus to what's really important – his two sons.

The hunter silently pulls the door open an inch, peering through the gap at his two boys sat calmly on the sofa. Well, that's how it looks on the surface anyway but John can tell, using intuition only a parent can have, that neither of his sons are calm right now.

Sam's broad shoulders are held tight and tense, his whole body held stiff and straight instead of slouching on the sofa as, to John's frustration, the young man tends to do. There's a couple of creases along his brow and a pinched look to his usually expressive eyes that belay just how anxious he is. And yet, it's still a lot better than he looked before – there's no more shaking and his hands which were previously curled into tight fists are loose and relaxed on his thighs. All in all, Dean's done a pretty good job...considering.

John squints at his elder son. To Dean, calm is a completely alien concept but John's beginning to learn the degrees of his panic. Right now, his eldest son isn't scared or angry but he _is _uncomfortable. Even with his limited vantage point, the eldest Winchester can see Dean's eyes darting around the sparse living room, lingering on the exits, and focussing on the floor – anywhere but at his brother. John knows from his admittedly brief experience that when Dean is being avoidant, he's usually admitting to something or talking about something he _really _doesn't want to be talking about.

The hunter almost feels guilty as he strains to hear his sons' conversation. Almost. He knows it's wrong, and Sammy would be mad if...scratch that, _when _he finds out, but John knows that Dean will open up more to Sam than he will to his father and John just wants to be a part of it – even if it can only be from a distance.

"H-he was...I mean he..."

John watches his eldest son pull his knees up to his chest into that all too familiar defensive position as he mumbles something nearly incoherent.

"He...I..." Dean tilts his head a little, glancing at his brother, before staring down at the floor and John can barely make out the boy's whispered admission.

"I dunno how to talk about him..."

John can see Sam's posture soften a little as the boy takes in his brother's distress.

"That's okay, Dean...Why don't you just tell me his name to start with?"

"His name was Kubrick,"

_Kubrick..._John frowns in concentration as he tries to remember where he's heard that name before. He's sure he's heard it before, although, he can't imagine anyone saying a name with such dread and fear as Dean manages to convey.

"He...he was real good friends with Walker."

Dean sounds cautious, as though he's not entirely sure he's saying the right thing but, through the crack in the door, John can see Sammy nodding, full of encouragement, patience and understanding - all the things the kid had needed for himself just a few minutes ago, all the things John just hadn't know how to give.

"But...he...he uh...the thing is. He...he wasn't as nice as Walker."

John's sure he must have heard wrong. It _is _pretty hard to hear from this distance and he could have sworn Dean just said Gordon Walker was-

"Nice?!" Sam finishes off John's sentence by echoing his brother's sentiment.

"Well..." Dean looks away sounding oddly embarrassed and shrugs with one shoulder, "You know...to me anyway..."

"I really don't know, Dean," Sam replies, disbelief tingeing his tone and John finds himself nodding in agreement – but at least if Sammy's confused too it's proof that he's not just being dense.

"Well, whenever Edwin was starving me or, you know, some other shit, well...Walker would sometimes give me something to eat – like, some apple core he found or something but, Kubrick....you could be bleeding to death in front of him and he wouldn't do anything unless Edwin ordered him, he'd just...stand there and stare at you..."

John can feel his hands trembling and he balls them into fists at his side as he fights the urge to fling the door open and comfort his eldest son. There's so much horror in Dean's story and the kid's barely even scratched the surface, John isn't sure if he can handle the rest.

_Suck it up, Winchester_, he orders himself, _Dean had no choice but to deal with it, Sammy's dealing with it – you shouldn't have stuck your damned nose in if you didn't want to hear this. _

"The bastard," Sam mutters and John watches as Dean stares at his brother curiously.

"You think?"

"You _don't_?" Sam counters his elder brother and Dean just shrugs again. The casualness of it makes John just want to give the kid a shake and snap him out of this screwed up view

"Well, Edwin liked him. He probably could've been Edwin's second in command if he wasn't such a nutjob," Dean replies as if the fact that Jeremy fucking Edwin liked the guy is actually worth a flying fuck.

"A nutjob?" Sam prompts and Dean nods.

"Yeah, he was one of those Jesus freaks, like Pastor Jim," Dean replies and John raises his eyebrows in surprise. He can't understand how anyone claiming to be a Christian could have been in Edwin's facility at all, let alone watching people – no, not just people, _his son_, bleeding to death.

"Dean, that doesn't mean he's a nutjob," Sam replies tentatively, treading with more caution than John would have been able to muster.

All John wants to do is barge in and demand a list of every single thing the guy ever did to his son and then pin it to the fucking ceiling. Then, when he goes to sleep at night, he can look up at it comfort himself with the knowledge that the bastard who did it all is dead.

"What do you fucking know?"

Dean's reply sounds almost tearful and the change in tone refocuses John's attention.

"He used to spout off about all kinds of shit. He'd come in in the middle of the night and just drag Robby out by his hair, kick the shit out of him there and then. Or-or he'd drag him off somewhere and flog him...exorcism he called it. He-he said Scrap and all the other kids were demons. He'd stick Robby's head in this big old metal tub of holy water and just hold it there till he stopped struggling – he said he was 'cleansing' him but he wasn't, Sam, Rob just used to struggle and struggle and he'd end up passing out or breathing in water and then...and then Kubrick would just chuck him back in the cell and walk away."

"Oh God..." Sam's turned ghostly white but John's eyes are focussed not on his son but to the youth currently curled up at the head of his bed only half covered by the blanket.

Without really knowing why, John finds himself walking to the bed and tugging the covers up until the boy's body is completely covered. He walks quietly back to his previous position but glances back at the kid one last time before turning his attention back to his sons.

The boy might not be Bobby's son but Jim cares for the kid and...aw hell, if John's honest then maybe _he's _beginning to feel something for the brat as well, hat or no hat.

"Did he ever...did he ever do any of that to...to you?" Sam is asking and, when Dean shakes his head in reply, John's knees almost buckle with relief. Thank God for small mercies...

"I wasn't a demon apparently," Dean replies bitterly. "Sometimes, if he was guarding me, he'd just sit near the bars of my cell and read the Bible. I-I'd be trying to ram my shoulder into socket or bandage some friggin' impossible-to-reach spot on my back before I bled to death and he'd just sit there, reading and chanting and praying."

John blinks as the image of his two frightened sons suddenly goes blurry and he's surprised to find tears sliding down his cheeks. That's strange because John Winchester doesn't cry...ever.

"He taught me how to say the rosary," Dean continues, his eyes wide and distant, as though even his own words are scaring him. "Have you ever tried to say a rosary when all your fingers are broken, Sam?"

John doesn't know what's more worrying – the horror of what Dean is saying or the fact that it almost sounds like a genuine question.

Sam simply shakes his head slowly, looking horrified while Dean just hugs his knees tighter.

"It hurts..." The elder brother admits hollowly, his lower lip trembling as he stares at the floor. "It really hurts."

And that whispered, broken admission is all it takes to shatter John's resolve. Privacy be damned – after hearing all that, how could any father willingly stay away from his son?

* * *

Dean starts as he hears the door opening and for one dreadful moment he imagines it's Kubrick come to drag Robby away for another 'exorcism'. But then he remembers - Robby isn't here, Robby's in that other room and that dark-haired man standing in the doorway sure isn't Kubrick.

"Dad," Sam greets but Dean's too busy trying to peer round John's body and into the bedroom for a glimpse of Robby to pay much attention to the interaction between the two men. The door however, is shut and Dean bites down on his lower lip anxiously as he turns his attention to John, searching, for the second time that day, for any signs of a struggle.

"Robert's alright, Dean, he's asleep."

Dean stops studying the man's hands at that and tilts his head to look up at the man's face, a confused frown on his face – how could John have known what he had been looking for?

"Can you prop the door open a bit, Dad?" Sam asks and Dean feels his frown deepening as he turns his head to look at his brother. Sam knows what he's thinking too?!

"Sure," John answers, striding over to the door and pulling it ajar and then stepping aside so that Dean has an unobstructed view. Robby is curled up, lying almost horizontal at the top of the bed, his hat angled down over his eyes and, Dean notes with relief, his chest is slowly rising and falling.

"He's alright, Dean," John assures him.

For some reason, Dean finds himself believing the man and he nods tentatively, not daring to admit his instance of trust aloud because, truthfully, it scares the shit out of him.

"Can I sit there?" John points to the empty space on the couch between Dean and Sam and Dean tenses up. God that's close, he doesn't know if he can deal with the man being that close to him...not when...everything is so fresh in his mind. He doesn't want it....he doesn't.

"Please, Dean?" John continues but Dean can only stare at the man. It's not like he can tell the truth and say no, how the fuck can bait say no? But he can't say yes because...because he just doesn't want someone so close to him, not if they don't have to be, not if it's not Sam or Robby. Not right now...

_Please...not right now._

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Dad..." Sam's tone is cautious and Dean just wants to disappear into the couch, he hates being the centre of attention – attention means pain, he knows that lesson so, so well. His muscles are cramping from his tense position but he curls up tighter, pulling his knees almost to his chin and shuffling as close the edge of the couch as possible.

"Maybe I'll just sit here instead," John finally sighs. The man sounds disappointed as he drops into the empty armchair across the room but Dean feels relieved and relaxes a fraction. He hates being so afraid all the time, hates himself for letting it show that he's so scared but there's nothing he can do about it.

There's a part of him that wants to trust John; the part that had finally dared to admit to John that he was in pain from Edwin's beatings, the part that had let John support him as they walked home in the pouring rain after saving Robby, the part of him that had clung to one desperate promise, decades after he'd stopped understanding what it meant.

"_Dean? Dean?! Dean, I'm going to find you!"_

But there's the other part of him too, the Dean who knows better than to trust anyone, the Dean who still remembers his father walking away and leaving him in the hands of that monster Edwin, the Dean who remembers Kubrick and Walker and Edwin and everyone else with terrifying clarity. That Dean has already made exceptions for Robby and now, it seems, Sam too. There isn't any room for another exception or Dean's rule that no one can be trusted, that no one will ever see him as anything but a worthless, damaged piece of bait will stop being a rule at all. And where did that leave him? As a big brother? Like he could ever be any good at that - he couldn't protect Robby, can't even protect himself – how is he supposed to look after Sam?

The sound of knocking on the front door startles Dean out of his thoughts and he turns to look at his brother as John gets up to open the door.

"He's dead, right?" he whispers fearfully to the younger man, hating himself for being so afraid, "You definitely shot him? They're dead? They're both dead?"

"They're both dead, Dean," Sam assures him, his calm voice somehow managing to settle some of Dean's panic. Dean doesn't yet recognise comfort, the concept still a little alien to him, but the young man knows that somehow talking to Sam, even about Kubrick made him feel a little better. He doesn't get why, doesn't get it at all but he knows that when Sam's around this whole 'people' shit isn't as scary and that's why, when Sam gets up to see who's at the door, Dean, for the first time in his life, makes a conscious choice to follow.

After all, he's a big brother now, and even if it is some stranger wanting to kick the shit out of him or, worse, hire him as bait – Dean can't...**won't** let Sam be at risk from whoever it is. He might not know how to talk to about stuff, he might not be able to cope with people being too close to him, and he doesn't have a clue who would be knocking on John Winchester's door at night time but he does know that if whoever it is has come to hurt Sam, then they're going to have to get through his big brother first!


	37. Chapter 37

**AN: Hi everyone, I am stressed off my head right now with exams and stuff so I'm taking it out on the boys. There's child abuse in this chapter and I was totally stressing when I wrote it. All that in mind...enjoy!**

Chapter Thirty Seven

John sighs wearily as he slumps down in his armchair. His sentiment is echoed by Pastor Jim who takes a seat on the couch, rubbing his tired eyes.

They'd finally managed to settle the boys down enough to convince them to go to bed and now it's just the two of them in the living room.

Dean had pleaded to be allowed to stay with Robby and hesitantly invited Sam to come stay with them too. The look of surprise and happiness on Sam's face had mirrored John's own feelings – it wasn't long ago that Dean was convinced Sam was going to rape him if they were alone in the bedroom together. His eldest son is still a troubled, traumatised young man but John's daring to hope that they're through the worst of it now. And hope isn't an emotion John's familiar with any more.

Now John just wants to go into his room and be with his sons, to just talk about something that isn't bait or abuse or demons or Jeremy Edwin. It hurts him to think that's''s''''s all Dean _could _talk about...all he knows.

"So, how is Samuel coping?" Jim asks and John is grateful for the distraction.

"He's upset," John answers with what must be the understatement of the century considering Sammy's near-hysterical reaction to the evening's events.

"He's guilty," John continues, "But he'll get over it."

"John...killing a man...that's a weight that stays with you forever," Pastor Jim replies thoughtfully, "Don't expect miracles from the boy, this is going to affect him for a long time to come."

"You're trying to tell _me _about how killing feels?" John asks, resentment seeping into his voice. He already feels guilty enough about how he handled his and Sam's argument, he doesn't need a lecture from a Goddamn priest. "I was a marine for Godsakes, I dare say I know more about it than you, Murphy."

"I'm trying to you about how _Sammy _feels," Jim replies calmly. "It's not something he's just going to 'get over'. He's going to have nightmares and flashbacks and he's got to learn to live with his guilt."

"He's got nothing to be Goddamned guilty_ about_!" John snaps back through clenched teeth.

"Maybe not," Jim acknowledges, "But he feels it anyway and you need to acknowledge his feelings, John, not just invalidate them like that. This kind of guilt can drive a man to-"

"It doesn't matter, Murphy," John interrupts the man. "Sam will be fine, okay? We can handle this. He's already feeling a damn sight better since Dean told him what a bastard that guy was."

Jim shakes his head softly at that, looking up at John with a look of despair in his eyes.

"I could never have imagined Kubrick would ever have anything to do with... with all this," Jim gestures half-heartedly around the living room but John is too shocked by the pastor's words to pay attention.

"You _knew _the bastard?!" the hunter asks, incredulous.

"Sort of," Jim replies, sounding almost guilty. "He was part of the congregation, was at my church every Sunday morning, very devout – never missed a sermon. Heck, he was even there last weekend."

"Oh that's fucking great, Murphy. I'm glad he managed to find time in between torturing my son to come to fucking Sunday School!" John replies bitterly.

"Why the hell didn't you..." John trails off, fumbling for words, his fury rendering him near-incoherent. He's not sure exactly _what _Jim Murphy should have done but the fact that this man could have been walking around camp of a weekend whilst inflicting such horrors on his son week after week. John curls his hand into fists and fights not to scream his rage.

"I had no idea, John..." Pastor Jim replies softly. "We never spoke, he never socialised after mass, never donated to the collection, never attended confession. He was just there...another face in the congregation. If I had known..."

There's so much anguish in Jim's voice that John's anger actually fades a little, replaced instead by a sense of fear that he's been trying so hard to keep from his sons _and _himself.

"What the fuck's going on, Jim?" the hunter asks wearily. This whole trafficking business is fucked up enough but...I mean, ambushes? Shootouts? Things like that don't happen here – not in our camp, not anymore."

"The world is changing..." Jim agrees, his voice echoing John's own confused, frightened tones.

"How? Why?" John asks. "As if the demons weren't a big enough problem, now we've got shit going down _inside _the borders? It's bull, Murphy, we're hunters, we have a Code, security...we're better than this!"

"Your son, my Scrap...they're living proof that some humans _aren't _better than that."

John nods, feeling exhausted, this is all so damned much..._too _much, the hunter just doesn't want to deal with it. This is Hendrickson's job, not his. Right now, John's boys are safe and healthy and that's all John can bring himself to care out.

So the hunter deliberately smirks and raises his eyebrows as he looks across the room at his old friend; "_Your _Scrap?"

* * *

Jim almost blushes as John echoes his words with a smirk. He hadn't even realised he'd been talking like that and he can't help but be embarrassed by it. He's taken children and teens under his wing before, picking up strays John used to call it, but that had been in the days when children still had a hope that their parents were still making their way to camp, in the days before trafficking started, before it became a common practice to abduct lost children and use them as bait – the 'good' old days.

And although Jim had always been sad to see his kids go, he'd always been overjoyed when they found their families or a couple willing to take in a child – usually one who had lost their own son or daughter in the wake of 'Gate.

This time though, Jim knows there won't be anyone coming to claim Robby as their long lost son and no one's going to 'adopt' a twenty year old man. Not out of _love _anyway the pastor acknowledges with a shiver.

So the priest can't help but be protective of his new charge, and ever since Edwin's men invaded his home and threatened his life Robby _has _been his charge.

This in mind, Jim grins a little as he stares back at his old friend. "Yeah, John," he counters with a smile, "_My _Scrap."

John smiles too, his eyes losing some of the harshness that usually resides there. "I always said you would've made a good father," the hunter replies wryly and Jim shakes his head.

"I'm not his father, John," the pastor replies defensively. "Just...you know, the boy needs someone to look after him."

John nods slowly and Jim can't help but think that his friend looks relieved.

"Seriously, Jim, you gotta keep that in mind, you're **not **his father."

Jim nods warily, not entirely sure of John's point.

"He's got Bobby's hat, he told me that Edwin's men found it in the crib with him."

Jim gasps at John's words but the hunter doesn't give him time to reply.

"I don't know if we can trust him," John finally finishes.

"_Dean _trusts him," Jim counters, still reeling from John's earlier statement about how Robby came to own Bobby Singer's cap.

"_Dean_ isn't exactly a wonderful judge of character, Jim," John replies. "He told Sam that Kubrick wasn't as 'nice' as Walker."

"He talked about Kubrick?" Jim asks, unable to help his curiosity even though he knows the answers will almost certainly upset him.

"Yeah," John scowls, his eyes darkening with anger. "The guy wasn't exactly practicing what you preach, Murphy."

Jim sighs at that, he knows he shouldn't be surprised that anyone working for Edwin would be cruel and malicious but it hurts to know that seemingly everyone in Dean's life treated him so awfully. And this guy was right under his nose! If only he could have seen something...there must have been some sign that-

"Hey, Jim, I'm sorry," John interrupts the pastor's thoughts with an apology and Jim realises how his friend must have interpreted his silence.

"What? No, it's not you, John, it's just...how could all this have been happening in our own camp? I mean, we all know about trafficking but _this_..._Kubrick_?"

"I know..." John agrees, running a hand through his hair. "But now we have one of the bastards in custody maybe we can get some damned answers."

John's expression is deadly and Jim easily picks up on John's meaning. _"And revenge..." _he finishes in his head, his heart heavy as he imagines the terrible hatred and loathing his old friend must be harbouring.

"Hendrickson says he's not confessing to anything," Pastor Murphy admits, watching as John's expression darkens even further.

"We'll see how long that lasts once _I _get down there," the man all but _growls _his response. Jim sends up a silent prayer that one day his friend might find it in himself to forgive these men but, as he stares into John's cold, intense eyes, even the usually optimistic pastor can't imagine it ever happening.

"Victor wants to interview Dean and Robby, find out exactly _what _we're dealing with here."

John nods reluctantly. "Yeah well, if Dean doesn't want to talk, the guy better back the hell off. He ain't hauling my son in front of those assholes on the judiciary."

"He needs permission from the judiciary before he can go in there and investigate," Jim replies gently, trying to keep the hunter calm.

"Bullshit!"

Trying unsuccessfully...

Those men **kidnapped** my son! Tortured him! Used him as _**bait**_!" John all but sobs. "I don't need some fucking 'committee' to give me 'permission' to deliver justice."

"John..." Jim starts cautiously, wishing he didn't have to be the one to have this discussion. Why couldn't someone else be the calm, rational one for once?

"Using humans as bait isn't against the code."

"It fucking _should _be," John snarls and Jim eagerly nods his agreement.

"I know that, John, no one protested harder than me and my church when they passed that law," Jim reminds his friend. "But they _did_ pass it, you can use someone as bait either with their consent, or, in the case of juvenile - their parent or guardian's consent."

"I didn't give my _consent_, Murphy. Any parent who does that should be fucking hung," John growls.

"But it happens," Jim replies, not wanting to dwell on the type of parents who would sign a blood contract giving away their own child's life all for a wad of ration coupons or a safer house. More often than not however, it was adults who just picked kids off the street and sold them before anyone knew they were missing.

"OK, so using bait with permission is legal, but I never signed that contract, Jim, so it doesn't fucking matter!"

"We burned that contract, John," Jim counters softly. "We don't have proof that you never signed it."

"Goddamnit, Murphy!" John yells, rising to his feet in irritation. "This is bullshit. Those people know me, they _know _how hard I looked for him."

"I know, John, I know..." Jim soothes, wishing he could just end this conversation here and now. "But he was here in this camp all along, so close to us...there _might _be some hunters who-"

"What the hell are you trying to say?" John asks, threateninglky threateningly and Jim takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. Being on the receiving end of John Winchester's anger is never pleasant, even if that anger is misdirected.

"I'm on your side, John," Jim responds firmly. "But some of those judiciary members won't be. Some of them won't even see Dean as a _person_, won't even listen to his evidence because he's not 'human' to them. That's why you _need _to persuade him to talk to Hendrickson about that place."

John sighs, curling his hands into fists in his frustration as he paces the room. "And what are _you _going to do?" he snaps and Jim rubs his forehead tiredly.

"The same with Robby," the hunter replies wearily. "I can only hope he's not as stubborn as you."

John finally relaxes a fraction, emitting a quiet chuckle as he looks down at the pastor still seated on the couch.

"Really, Jim – as if _that's _possible."

Dean closes the door quietly behind him and then stares around the large bedroom, wondering what he's supposed to do next.

"_Get some rest," _John had said but that didn't seem right. He was healed now, thanks to Robby, and fitter than ever since his new family fed him so well and didn't beat him. He should be training or...or doing _something _useful, that's what he's _for_.

"Does he always sleep like that?"

Sam's voice interrupts Dean's confusion and it takes the elder man a while to figure out what his brother is talking about; Robby is curled up at the head of the bed, lying horizontally across the mattress, scrunched up into a tight ball. There's plenty of space for him to stretch out if he wanted but, Dean knows from experience, old habits die hard.

* * *

_**Dean sighs as he tosses and turns on his mattress. Mr. Walker was meant to be training him today but he's out on a hunt and, since everyone else is busy, that means that Dean's cooped up in here...all day long. **_

_**He doesn't want to train, training hurts, Mr. Walker always hits him so hard and acts so mean. Dean knows it's for his own good and that it's his fault for being a whimp but...it's nice to not get beat up for once. **_

_**On the other hand, it's booooooring. Mr. Edwin took his baseball and now Dean had nothing to play with and nothing to do, except... **_

_**The boy shifted his gaze from the mouldy, damp ceiling of the cell to his new cellmate, stood in the corner of the cell. The new boy, Scrap, had been here about three days now and so far he'd stuck to Dean's rule of staying on HIS side of the cell (although, Dean had let him come over to use the toilet a couple of times cos...well, else it would be gross). **_

_**The little kid's leaning against the wall, his eyes closed and every few seconds he'll move a little as if he's about to fall and then shake himself awake. Dean knows the boy must be tired, he's been through that feeling so many times himself during Edwin's lessons but he doesn't get why Scrap doesn't just curl up in the corner and sleep like he normally does. **_

"_**Hey Scrap," Dean calls out, watching as his cellmate's eyes flicker open. "Watcha doin'?"**_

"_**Nothing!" Scrap quickly answers. "I ain't on your side of the cell, Dean, I promise!" **_

_**Dean feels a little guilty that the kid sounds so scared. He's beginning to think that he wouldn't even care that much if Scrap came over to his side of the cell. But it's just so nice not to be so afraid all the time, so nice to be the big, scary one for a change instead of always having people afraid of him. **_

_**So he answers back with a glare, doing his best to sound mean "Good." **_

_**Scrap stares blankly at him for a second before his head droops and then he snaps himself awake again. Dean rolls his eyes. **_

"_**Hey, Scrap, why don't you lie down and go to sleep if you're so tired?" And then because he's worried the kid might start getting weird ideas that Dean wants to be friends he quickly adds, "You been nodding like that for ages, it's annoyin'!"**_

_**Scrap's bottom lip starts to quiver then and Dean scowls, the kid's gonna start crying now....great. **_

"_**Don't cry," he orders, hoping that will shut the little kid up. He doesn't like it when people cry, it makes him feel...he doesn't know. Weird. But if shouting doesn't work, what else can he try? He doesn't reeeaaallly want to hit Scrap but, what else can he do? He'll give the brat a while to pull himself together, the young boy decides and if he hasn't stopped crying by then...**_

"_**I-I wanna lie down," Scrap stammers, wiping clumsily at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But it hurts."**_

"_**What hurts?" Dean frowns, searching his cellmate for any injuries. He doesn't look hurt.**_

"_**M-my back," the little kid replies shakily. "Mr. Kubrick took me out the cell last night when you were asleep. He...he said I was a demon and I-I needed...flogging." **_

_**The kid sobs a little then and Dean bites down on his lip. He doesn't know what 'flogging' is but if it's Mr. Kubrick then it probably isn't nice.**_

"_**He hit me with this thing...like this string thing with a handle an'...an' it hurt and he did it for so long an'..."**_

_**Dean stares warily at the kid. It sounds horrible, and it sounds just like something Mr. Kubrick would do but, Scrap might just be making it all up so he can get onto Dean's side of the cell. It might be a trick. Well, Dean's not that dumb! **_

"_**Show me," the eight year old orders, sounding as confident as he could manage. As soon as Scrap turns around though, any confidence he'd managed to build up quickly goes away at the sight of his cellmate's dirty old tee shirt stuck to his back with a big browny, reddy stain that can only be...**_

"_**You're bleeding," Dean whispers, shocked almost into silence.**_

_**Scrap simply whimpers his response. "I'm sorry," and then grips at the hem of his tee shirt. **_

_**But Dean knows what's under there is going to be a mess and he quickly shakes his head, even though Scrap can't see it.**_

"_**No, it's ok. Leave it on." And then...without really thinking it, he's giving the new boy permission to be on his cot. "You can lie on here if you want, it's kinda softer, might not hurt as much."**_

_**The boy looks wary but, after a couple of seconds of staring, he nods, clambering onto the bed.**_

"_**But you gotta stay down there," Dean insists, pointing to the foot of the bed. "And you better not take up much space else...else...look this is my cot okay? So...so don't get in the way."**_

_**But the only reply he got from the blonde haired four year old boy curled up at the foot of his bed was the sound of quiet snoring. **_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"There wasn't much room on our cot," Dean explains to Sam. "Most of the time we took turns but...when both of us were hurt or w- er, Robby got scared, he used to curl up at the bottom of the bed like that."

"So...where did you sleep the rest of the time?" Sam asks and Dean rolls his eyes - Sam can be so dense sometimes.

"On the floor,"

_Obviously_, Dean adds silently.

Sam just sighs and Dean, having no idea why Sam's getting all upset and being a weirdo, carries on talking because if he sits in silence he'll start remembering again and since Sam won't beat him for talking he can talk as much as he wants. And..._wow_...it's weird to realise that.

"Scrap used to crawl under the bed and sleep there most of the time when he was little, just 'cos it...it took 'em that extra couple of seconds to drag him back out again. Except after a few years he got too big and couldn't fit and then...he stopped fighting them pretty soon after."

Dean runs a hand through his hair; his plan of 'not remembering' isn't really working out so well and Sam, who's now staring at Robby, looks as upset as ever and still isn't talking.

Dean scowls; he knows what Sam must be thinking - how weak Robby was to hide and give in...to _break_. How weak his big brother is to have followed the same path.

"I didn't _want _to stop fighting them, Sam," the elder Winchester insists, his voice thick with emotion. "I _tried_ to but...he cuffed my broken ankle and chained it to a wall, he....he threatened to burn my eye out with a lighter and made me stick my hand in the flame. Every time I fought 'em they'd just say that Latin and..." Dean's voice trails off to a whisper and the young man stares at his brother with haunted eyes as he shrugs weakly and then points to his temple, whispering hollowly "...bang."

Sam gasps and winces, a look of anguish on his face. He's not doing his normal thing of saying 'it's alright, Dean'...why isn't he doing that? Wait, why does Dean _care _if Sam tells him 'it's alright' or not. It **isn't **alright and Dean doesn't need someone lying to him that it is.

_Because when he says that, you know he's not mad with you_, a voice in Dean's head reminds him and Dean shakes his head angrily – he doesn't **care **if Sam is mad with him. The guy's not gonna punish him so what does it matter?

And yet... "It's not fair, Sam! You don't know what it was like! When he...on that day...when he made me kneel and put that gun to my head...I-I wasn't _scared _to fight, I just...I didn't want to."

"Dean-"

But Dean's started talking now and if he doesn't get this out now he might never be able to.

"The night before...he locked me up in the dark on my own in this little...pit. No bed, no toilet, no food, just...me...me and the dark and the chains. And...and I thought, if this is what's it's like to die, to just be in the dark on your own then...then it wasn't so bad. It wasn't that I wanted to die, I mean I missed Robby but...I didn't exactly _not _want to either."

"Dean..." Sam tries again but Dean's not sure he can face hearing his brother's scorn or hearing about what he _should _have done. He just wants someone who can _understand_.

"_You _don't understand," Dean glares tearfully at his little brother, voicing the rest of his thoughts out loud. "I know I fucked up and he broke me...I let him break me but...."

Dean bites down his lower lip, looking away as he whispers one desperate, hopeless plea. "...Please don't judge me, Sam...Please don't judge me..."


	38. Chapter 38

**Hi everyone. First off, MASSIVE apologies if I didn't reply to your review for the last chapter - as some of you may know, this website has changed the system in an attempt to make it as ghey and annoying as possible. As such, I couldn't reply to some of them as it only worked like half the time I tried so just want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who reviews, I appreciate it so, so much!**

Chapter Thirty Eight

Sam lies awake in the dark and tries to focus on something other than tornado of thoughts in his mind. Every new revelation of Dean's past feels more horrific than the last as each little glimmer of insight adds up into a brutal, vivid vision of the last twenty years of his big brother's life.

And that's another thing – visions. He's had two now and, sooner or later, when he calms down, Dad's going to want to know how Sam knew to go to Pastor Jim's house. _And _how they got free. Sam's stomach lurches as he remembers _that_. _That _of course being Dean's shattered thumb joint...which, Sam notes as he glances over at his brother, is now flawlessly healed. Sam's willing to bet that that has something to do with Dean's friend; Scrap, Robby...Robert Singer Junior who, whoever he is, brings with him another gale of unanswered questions and a heap load of emotional baggage.

And how is it that he's here sleeping like -well not exactly a 'log', Sam muses as he watches the boy trembling in his sleep - but sleeping and healthy when only a few weeks ago he was on the brink of death?

The guy's still curled at the top of the bed and Dean's positioned so they're lying back to back. It's a bit of a squeeze to fit everyone on the bed but, Sam's not really in the mood for sleeping anyway, hasn't been for the past six hours he's been lying here.

Sam grits his teeth and barely stifles his grunt of frustration. He **hates **Jeremy Edwin, hates Gordon Walker and Kubrick too. And he hates visions and broken thumbs and healing and everything else that's just screwing up his life.

A few months ago, his biggest worry was whether Dad would let him be on the judiciary instead of hunting full-time. Now, the judiciary barely crosses his mind, he hasn't even looked at a book since they found Dean, let alone picked up or, shock, horror, **read **it.

_Why couldn't Dean just have been found by a nice family when he was little and... _

Sam sighs, frustrated - what right does _he _have to wish for that? Dean's the one who had to live through it all but he isn't complaining. Well...not too much. Then again, Sam wonders exactly _how _much Dean knows of what normal life is like, of exactly _how _much he's missed out on.

As far as Dean's aware, his life - the only life he's known - _is _normal. That it's normal to be beaten and broken and used as bait, that it's what he _deserves. _Sam isn't looking forward to breaking it to Dean that really, all things considered, Dean's lot in life has been about as awful as it gets.

_One step at a time_, the hunter reminds himself, echoing his father's mantra.

And right now, with **two **guys to worry about, it's more like _half _a step at a time.

Sam sighs again and then glances at the other boy; it's only his well-honed hunter's instincts that stop him from startling when the guy rapidly opens his eyes and stares at Sam with a look the Winchester can't even begin to decipher.

Sam guesses the fact that he was just watching the kid sleep probably isn't giving the kid the best first impression so he tries to smile (but **not **in a staring –at-you-while-you-sleep stalkerish kind of way) as he whispers to the boy.

"Hey."

Robby almost smiles back at him but his eyes flicker nervously to Dean as he does so. Sam knows from experience what a light sleeper Dean is and he silently sil berates himself for not thinking of that before he opened his mouth.

Luckily though, Dean doesn't stir and Sam relies on hand gestures alone to invite Robby out of the bedroom. The young hunter is pretty damned surprised that the other man can even understand what he means but, even more surprising than that is the fact that, against all his expectations, the kid actually follows.

* * *

"Do you remember me?"

Sam's not sure what answer he's expecting from Robby. He still remembers how completely out of it the kid had been when they'd first rescued him and, apart from a few delirious mumblings about how he apparently looked like Dean, there hadn't been much interaction between them.

"Kinda," Robby answers quietly, his gaze flickering between Sam's face and the ground.

That's probably all he would ever get out of Dean, Sam acknowledges – one word answers as vague as possible to put him at the smallest degree of risk of being 'wrong', of punishment.

Robby, however, looks like he's got more to say so Sam forces himself to remain silent, quashing the rising tide of questions building up inside, and simply waiting patiently for the kid to start talking again.

"You're Dean's brother. Your name is Sam. You look after Dean and you care about him."

Scrap's voice is an interesting mixture of uncertain determination and Sam feels a little guilty for putting the guy on the spot like that. Some of his Dad's paranoia about this young man is rubbing off onto him and Sam doesn't like that one bit. So, the young hunter schools his features into as kind and gentle an expression as he can manage as he sits himself down on the porch, indicating for Scrap to do the same.

"That's right," he answers with a smile, watching as Robby sits himself down against the side of the house, only an arms-length away. "Did Dean tell you that?" Sam asks, wondering how this boy would know about him and Dean.

"No," the boy answers, a hint of guilt creeping into his voice and Sam feels a paradoxical mixture of relief and disappointment; He's somewhat relieved that Dean hadn't been the one to tell Robby those things because that's just so un-Dean-like that it's not even real. On the other hand, it sure would have been nice to have Dean talk about him in that way; weird and un-Dean-like, yeah, but nice all the same.

Still, if _Dean _hadn't told Robby then... "How do you know that?"

Robby looks away briefly, and then turns back to Sam with an apologetic expression. "I can't tell you how," he replies with half-shrug. "But I know it."

"Okay," Sam replies, an amused smile playing at the edge of his lips as tries to weigh up Dean's mysterious young friend. He figures Pastor Jim must have been the one to tell Robby about him but he can't think why the boy wouldn't admit that.

"Well, we've met before, do you remember that?"

Scrap shakes his head at that and Sam sighs; occasional bouts of talkativeness aside, the kid's as bad as Dean for making conversations as awkward as possible. Still, Sam isn't surprised at Robby's answer, he figures the guy was probably still half asleep when they'd had their brief talk.

"You said I looked like Dean," Sam continues. "What did you mean?"

"I don't remember," Robby answers with another shrug. "Sorry."

_So_, Sam muses as he watches Robby chew on a fingernail. _The guy's a terrible liar_.

Still, he's not going to press the issue, not in the middle of the night and on his very first 'proper' meeting with this new, interesting arrival. And especially not when there's something much more pressing to investigate.

But, before he has chance to actually start investigating, Sam finds Scrap doing a little investigating of his own.

"Mister Sam?"

Well, that's a new one, Sam thinks with a slight grin but he doesn't challenge the guy. There'll be time for that later, for now he'd rather Robby just called him whatever makes the kid feel comfortable.

And a curious sounding 'Mister Sam' is a heck of a lot less horrifying than Dean's timid, terrified 'Sirs' that took so long to erase from his everyday speech.

"Yeah?" Sam tries to sound interested and non-threatening in response to Robby's question, remembering how his brother tends to flinch on the rare occasions he lets his curiosity get the better of him.

"After Mr. Walker...finished with me,"

Sam hears what the boy doesn't say as clearly as what he speaks aloud, the tiny pause reflecting a mere fraction of how distressing Walker's treatment must have been for him.

"I don't remember much from after that. Only...a girl and...I don't know..." the kid trails off, his eyes vague and distant as he tries to recall memories he had barely been conscious enough to make.

"But one day I woke up and I was better, like, properly better."

Sam nods and suddenly finds himself staring into Robby's eyes.

"Do you know how they did it, Mister Sam? Or _why_? I-I don't understand and Pastor Jim won't tell me, but, it's just...I've never met anyone like me who could-"

Scrap breaks off then, his eyes growing wide and Sam, sensing the guy's nervousness, treads gently with his reply.

"Anyone who could _heal_?" he prompts and, after a about a minute's pause Robby finally nods, his gaze darting between Sam and the house behind them.

"You fixed Dean's hand, didn't you?" Sam continues gently, receiving another timid nod in response.

"It would have healed bad on its own..." Robby replies and Sam wonders if that's a hint of defensiveness in the guy's voice he can hear.

"How is that possible...?" Sam wonders aloud, shaking his head in disbelief at the sheer weirdness of it all. Visions of the future and now supernatural healing? And why on Earth is Pastor Jim keeping secrets?

"Are there any other people, with these kind of...powers?" Sam asks.

He kind of thinks he should wait until the morning when Dad and Pastor Jim are awake before he starts investigating this; they'll know what kind of questions to ask and what's important.

But there's certain things Sam doesn't want his father to find out, like the fact he's seeing the future. He might have been able to pass his first one off as a 'migraine' but Dad's going to start asking questions soon and Sam wants to have as many answers ready as possible. Well...he _does_ hate to lose to Dad in an argument after all and now Dean's here he has a reputation to uphold – Sam Winchester, official pain in the butt to John Winchester since 1983.

* * *

Robby closes his eyes briefly, wishing Dean was here to help him as he listens to the tall stranger beside him.

Well, Sam isn't _that _much of a stranger to him; he's watched the guy, seen, with what little power he has, the man interacting with Dean. And whilst his glimpses have been brief and confusing, he's seen enough to know that Dean's safe around Sam.

And now, as he risks a glimpse at the man's aura, Robby figures that _he_ justmight be safe too. It's a confusing mixture of swirling uncertainty and worry on the surface but, as he peers deeper, Robby can see the glowing core of kindness and peacefulness and a bunch of other stuff the young psychic doesn't know the words for.

But there's something else, something even deeper than that, beneath the core of Sam's aura – a hint of...power, and of darkness. It's frightening to look at, to know that something so corrupt could settle in even such a pure aura as Sam's.

Robby shivers and looks away, unable to stare any more. As scary as it is to look into that deep, hidden inner darkness, it's even scarier to know that he himself has it stained onto his aura.

He can't _see _his own aura of course but he knows what's there - the same power, the same corruption, the same dark core. He's had Kubrick flogging and chanting and god knows what else to push back it into the depths of his soul for years while, at the same time, Edwin was dragging it closer and closer to the surface, always wanting more, better, stronger, sharper...beating Dean closer and closer to death to see just _how _well Robby could heal him.

"Robby?"

Robby looks back at Sam – it's still weird to hear people other than Dean say his name. He's always been Scrap to everyone else and, for some reason, he can't decide if he likes this better...

"Scrap?"

Sam's tone is getting more and more insistent and Robby sighs...Dean's gonna kill him.

"There's others," he answers, he answers hollowly, his eyes glazed and vacant as he stares with his mind's view into Edwin's dungeons. Sees his friends, his enemies, sees-

Robby has to stifle his grunt of pain as the vision begins to take its toll.

_Stupid_, he curses himself as he snaps back to reality. _That was dumb. _

Why had he even done that? After all, there's no way he could have checked on **everyone **there. Not with his powers as limited as they are...

"There's a whole load of others, Mr. Sam."

"But...how? How can this happen? How could we not know about this?"

'_I __**did **__know about it,'_Robby wants to answer before it dawns on him that Sam probably isn't talking about him. Why would he, after all?

"Edwin called them....me...he called us 'special children', even when we weren't kids anymore," Robby finally answers.

"He said we were a family and that we were all together apart from one person. One who 'got away'," the blonde continues, staring into Sam's eyes as he speaks and not finding even a flicker of recognition. Either the guy's a really good liar, good enough to fool Robby's all-seeing eyes, or he really, truly doesn't know the ability he has.

"The council has to know about this!" Sam's standing up now, pacing agitatedly and Robby tracks him, back and forth, back and forth...

"He can't get away with this. _How _could he do that? How could we not know? And this?...Humans...special humans? That's crazy."

Robby doesn't get _why_ it's crazy. There are special kids, there are bait kids and there are normal kids, hunter's kids – that's the way of the world...Just not Sam's world obviously. He'd love to ask why Sam doesn't get it but the guy looks pretty mad and the young psychic's not quite sure if it's a good idea to ask more questions.

"We'll get them out of there, we'll help them. People can't **do **stuff like this, it's against the code, the judiciary will help. Whoever's left in that place, they'll be put on trial, we'll go after them, they can't..." Sam trails off then, exhausted ,and Robby breathes a sigh of relief.

"That's real nice of you to want to help, Mr. Sam," the young man replies with half-hearted smile which fades as he finishes the rest of his thought in his head; _But if we ain't real careful here, it might be __**them **__coming after __**you**__._

_

* * *

_**AN: Ok, so not much Dean this chapter (hey, he deserved a break, yeah? lol) but I hope you liked it. Please warn me if Robby looks to be turning into a Gary Stu! **


	39. Chapter 39

**Hi everyone, apologies for the delay but **s**ome good stuff has happened and it has been keeping me busy so I'm sorry for the wait. On top of all that I got a Summer job now and, although you might think that means less frequent updates, I spend a lot of time thinking up ideas at work (I mean, I spend all my time working really hard and certainly not daydreaming about the WInchester boys *cough cough* ;)) and so I hope to update more frequently from now on. You guys are the best readers ever, thanks for being so patient!  
**

Chapter Thirty Nine

"Well, Sam's already gone and come back from his, _he's _okay," Jim encourages, deflating when Robby simply gives a minute shrug in response to his latest persuasion tactic.

The Pastor sighs, wilting under Robby's tearful, pleading stare – man has he had it easy up till now...Murphy thinks guiltily back over all the times he's had to convince John to not to feel guilty about lecturing Sammy into doing something the kid didn't want to do. He'd assumed, in his childless naivety, that knowing it was for the greater good would negate the effects of any guilt-trips from the boy.

"Please, Sir…I-I don't wanna go."

Boy had he been wrong…

"Why not, Scrap?" he asks gently, hoping that if he can at least understand _why_ the kid's been pleading with him for the last five minutes not to send him for his security interview then he might at least have a shot of persuading him to go.

He could, of course, _force _the kid to go – just one sentence that sounds even remotely like an order and the boy would instantly, frantically obey. Jim's seen far too many examples of that to know that Robby's punishments for disobedience growing up couldn't have been anything other than brutal and that's certainly not a state he wants the boy in today…or ever in fact.

"'Cos…" Robby is staring steadfastly at the floor now, his eyes wide with unshed tears and his bottom lip quivering and Jim's instantly panicked – he's never seen the boy cry before (though Lord knows the young man's had plenty of reason to) and so he knows how troubled the youth must be.

"Because what?" he coaxes softly almost on the verge of tears _himself_ and feeling ridiculously guilty for all those times he had brushed John's fatherly guilt aside when the man had needed his reassurance that it was ok, that sometimes you _had _to be strong with your children when all you wanted to do was see them smile. But he hadn't understood, not until now.

"Because…because I won't know the right answers an…and he'll take us back and I don't want to go back, I want to stay here with you and I want Dean to be safe but he won't be an..an' he'll take us back!"

Jim almost flinches in the wake of Robby's tearful tirade. There was so much there and so little time to process it all.

"Please, please Sir don't make me go, I'll do anything! _Anything_."

"Hey, hey! Calm down…" Jim soothes, longing to offer some physical reassurance but knowing that, in this state, the kid wouldn't see physical contact as anything but a threat.

"You think I'm going to send you and Dean back to Edwin's place?" Jim continues, trying not to let the anger he feels at even the notion of that idea seep into his voice.

"Yeah…" Robby nods miserably. "That's what it is, right? A test? If we get the questions wrong they'll send us back for…for punishment and I'll get it wrong, I always do and it will be my fault…"

"Oh Scrap…" Jim shakes his head sadly, wondering what the boy must have been through to come up with an idea like _that _over a simple security interview. "That's not how it is at all."

"It ain't?" Robby sniffs, sounding genuinely bewildered but no longer petrified and Jim shakes his head again, allowing a sympathetic smile to form on his lips.

"Not at all."

"Oh..."

Jim watches as the young man tilts his head to the side, a quirky little habit the kid seems to have when he's thinking.

"I-I thought…"

Scrap seems reluctant to finish his sentence and Jim's somewhat relieved, he _really_ doesn't want to hear that little outburst again.

"You and Dean are never going back there," he assures the younger man. "Okay?"

The kid nods, although not altogether convincingly as Jim continues.

"That's what this interview is for. To keep you safe, to help catch those men that are after you so you're not in danger of going back."

"But…but it's okay, I can see 'em coming! I can do that instead of going. They won't catch me unawares, I can see 'em coming an' run and hide. I done it before once…"

The boy's eyes darken then as he dwells on another seemingly unpleasant memory and Jim feels more than a little lost. He has no idea what Robby means or how to draw the boy out of his memories and back on track.

Luckily, Robby seems to do that himself, shaking his head as if to clear it and then setting his gaze on the Pastor.

"I'm stronger now, I could-" the boy breaks off then, looking suddenly panicked.

"Don't matter," he suddenly declares, "Don't tell Dean I said none of that…please?"

"I won't," Jim promises, not really having much of a clue what he's promising, only that it's important to Scrap.

And that's when it hits him.

"I won't tell him, as long as you go to this interview…"

The Pastor's beginning to think that it might have been easier to just order the kid after all. Here he is, a man of God, _blackmailing _a frightened kid into a potentially terrifying situation.

'_I know it's for his own good, Jim_…" John Winchester's voice echoes in Pastor Jim's mind. _'But I __**still **__feel like a bastard.'_

"Have we got a deal?" he asks firmly, trying to act like he _doesn't _feel completely wretched about the whole thing.

He doesn't feel much sense of pleasure or relief when Robby gives his reluctant, petulant nod of agreement and, as he eases himself into his armchair, the Pastor can only hope that John, with all his parenting experience, is doing a better job of convincing _his _son.

* * *

"Dammit, Dean just go!"

John's _trying _not to lose his patience but he's been _trying _for the past ten minutes now and, as pretty much everyone (**including** Dean) knows, John Winchester is not a patient man.

"No. Screw you," Dean glowers back, folding his arms defiantly across his chest and deliberately turning his head away.

John simply rolls his eyes and lets out his frustration in a deep sigh - there's no way he would tolerate this level of insolence from Sammy. But, of course, Dean _isn't _Sammy. Dean is the boy who, only a few months ago, was petrified of being raped and beaten and crippled with a curse – to see him feeling comfortable enough to argue like this is a welcome slice of family normality.

But at the same time... "Dean, this is really important."

"I don't give a shit."

John might not be as perceptive as Sammy but he can tell that _that's _a lie. Dean quite clearly _does _give a shit otherwise he wouldn't be arguing so hard over this.

"I really need you to go to this meeting."

He might as well be trying to persuade the camping stove or the damned armchair to walk to security. He'll admit he's hardly the most passionate man for this cause – he'd really prefer for no-one to go talk to Hendrickson, to just keep it in the family like they normally do, but Henrickson was there and involved and, although John hates to admit it, they might need the guy's help.

"Make me," Dean challenges, jutting out his jaw and John just turns away, fighting the urge the take Dean up on his offer and _drag _the boy there.

"Go on! Use that little curse on me...oh wait, you can't!" Dean declares triumphantly but John can see genuine relief in his son's eyes. "You can't make me do shit any more old man."

"We've been through this, Dean, I wouldn't even if I could. I'm just asking."

"You're _telling_," Dean counters, "You said you ain't my master, but you're still giving me orders."

"I'm not your 'master'," John agrees, "But I am your father."

"So I just gotta do what you say all the same?" Dean asks, glancing suspiciously through narrowed eyes.

"_Yes!" _John's parental instinct declares. That's the approach he's certainly taken with Sammy all these years. But of course, Dean's idea of being told what to do isn't John's firm insistence but of being dragged, bloodied and beaten and threatened into obedience.

"You just need to accept that...Dad knows best."

...Christ, that was corny.

"God...don't tell Sam I said that..." John mumbles, more to himself than actually to Dean but, to his surprise, Dean actually snickers.

"Look, all you have to do is just answer some questions, you've been through worse than that surely?" John's not used to being so frank with his elder son, well, not used to having many prolonged conversations with the boy at all if he's honest, but after witnessing the kid's bold defiance today, he feels confident enough he won't spook the kid.

But, as he watches the colour drain from Dean's face, he gets a sickening feeling that he might have got it wrong.

"'Just ask some questions..." Dean echoes quietly. "You think I don't know what that means? You think I don't know what's gonna happen if I don't get it right? You think I ain't played this game before?"

Dean sounds almost tearful and John is completely thrown. He had no idea that this was all going on in Dean's head...and yet, now it seems so obvious. Of course the kid wouldn't know what a security interview involves, how could he?

"Dean, Dean, Dean..." John sighs, shaking his head in pity at his screwed up, adorable son. "It's not like that at all. There's not going to be a right or a wrong answer."

"Yeah, you just get the shit kicked out of you no matter what you say, I know how it is."

Dean won't even look at him, the young man's head is turned defiantly away, his hands balled in trembling fists at his side.

"Dean if that man ever laid a hand on you, I would shoot him myself, just like I did to Kubrick," John declares solemnly, finally managing to get Dean to at least glance at him.

"You killed him..." Dean mumbles, "Because..."

"Because he was threatening to hurt you, Dean, to take you back down to that place, I promised you I wouldn't let that happen."

"You promised it," Dean echoes thoughtfully, "and you shot him..."

"Exactly," John replies, glowing with paternal pride.

Dean almost smiles then, his hands finally relaxing as he shifts his gaze from the opposite wall to John's shoes – it's a start at least.

"Why don't you just go shoot him now and save time?" Dean mumbles and John's pretty sure the kid isn't joking.

"You're that convinced he's gonna hurt ya?" John asked bewildered and Dean just shrugged.

"I ain't going," he responded and John sighed, he really thought he'd been getting through to the kid and now...now he was desperate and that meant he was going to have to play dirty.

"Oh well..." the hunter began, shrugging with a carelessness that was way too forced to look anything but completely fake. "I guess Robby will have to go on his own then."

John tries to keep the anguish off his face as he preys on Dean's biggest vulnerability – being unable to protect his friend. He wouldn't be surprised if Robby and Jim were on their way to security already – he's sure that wise old Pastor Murphy with his damned near saintly levels of patience and tolerance will have managed to persuade _his _boy to go in a matter of seconds. Wise old Pastor Jim Murphy certainly won't have had to resort to **blackmailing **his kid.

"What?" Dean's head jerks up at that, glaring at John with a look of such intensity and suspicion that the elder Winchester is actually worried that the young man might hit him again. "What the hell?"

"Well, Robby's going. I thought you might want to go with him but..." John trails off, shrugging again.

"He ain't going on his own!" Dean yells. "No way."

"Well then," John sighs, trying his best not to ignoring the nagging feeling of guilt – not too easy with his conscience screaming _'You bastard!' _over and over in his mind. "I guess we'd better get going then."

* * *

"Okay boys, just relax."

Dean simply glares at the man sat before them. Relax? With a stranger around?

_Not a chance in hell..._

"My name's Mr. Hendrickson," the guy continues. "Dean we've met before but, uh..." Hendrickson turns to look at Robby seated next to Dean. "I don't know your name, son."

"He's not your son," Dean interrupts, eager to rile this guy up so he'll fuck off and leave them alone.

And anyway, isn't this family stuff meant to be like special? Isn't it the whole reason that Sam and John saved him instead of letting Edwin shoot him in the head? Maybe Hendrickson's trying to trick Scrap into believing _they're _family so the kid will trust him...

"Something's telling me you two ain't related...just can't put my finger on it..." Dean ponders sarcastically as he runs his eyes over the older man's dark skin.

"It's a figure of speech, Dean," Hendrickson replies, his tone already a little irritated and Dean smirks in satisfaction.

"You can call me Victor," the officer continues, speaking now to Robby who nods timidly.

"My name is...Scrap."

Dean notices the way Robby pauses and he doesn't like it. They don't know for sure that this isn't one of Edwin's men - Robby never gives his real name to people he doesn't trust, he knows better than that, and the fact that he's starting to trust this guy _already_...

_You're losing your edge, dude... _Dean muses as he stares at his younger friend.

"Okay, Scrap, Dean, we need to talk a little about what happened the other night. Can you do that?"

"Yeah, we can - nothing happened," Dean shoots back. "Me and Sam talked then him and Scrap went out for a midnight chat when they thought I was asleep..." Dean glares pointedly at Robby who, he's happy to see, has a satisfying expression of surprise and guilt. "Then we woke up and had to talk to some douchebag security guard," Dean finishes with a smirk. "Is that all, Officer?"

Hendrickson takes a deep breath before replying. "Look, Dean, I know it's difficult for you but this is very serious. There has been a severe breach of Code-"

"Code doesn't apply to Bait," Dean replies with a shrug.

"Dean..." Robby protests hesitantly but Dean cuts him off with a glare.

"Look, we know there's more people involved in this," Hendrickson speaks through clenched teeth. "Don't you want to see them put away?" the officer pleads.

"Put _down _would be better," Dean mumbles and Hendrickson shrugs.

"That could be...a possibility," he replies cautiously. "Some crimes aren't forgiven in this camp."

"But using people as bait is," Dean counters, jutting his jaw defiantly – he's not going to believe this guy's bullshit and he's not going to let Robby be tricked into believing it either.

"With permission," Hendrickson counters weakly and Dean just glowers back.

"I didn't give them _my _permission..."

"No, and your Dad didn't give them _his _either. What they did was illegal and immoral and that's why we need you to cooperate here so we can bring them to justice."

"And who are 'we'?" Dean asks suspiciously.

"Security," the elder man replies smoothly but Dean's still not convinced.

"How do we know that someone in 'Security' isn't one of them, huh?" Dean taunts, glancing pointedly at Scrap. "How do we know that you aren't just gonna send us back down there? H-how do we know this ain't a trick?"

"I would **know **if one of my men was involved with those sorts of people, Dean," Agent Hendrickson insists.

"Yeah? Well, you didn't know about Kubrick did you? Or Walker," Dean argues, real panic beginning to set in, replacing his smart-ass act with genuine fear.

"They weren't _my _men," Hendrickson argues and before Dean has chance to reply, Robby finally interrupts with a comeback of his own.

"But you knew them though!" the kid glances at Dean, as if for approval to carry on with his argument, and the older man nods his encouragement.

"Pastor Jim knew Kubrick…kinda, and-and he didn't know about…what he was…"

Robby trails off then, his confidence failing him under Hendrickson's intense stare, and so Dean nods, patting his friend on the back in encouragement and glaring at the officer.

"Yeah!" he agrees triumphantly, glad to see Robby taking his side again.

"Boys…come on…" Hendrickson pleads. "What do you want from me here?"

"We wanna go home," Robby pouts, using that petulant, fed-up tone that he and Sam seem to be naturals at.

"You told Sam there were other people trapped there, don't you want to save them?" Hendrickson reasons and Dean shoots Robby a glare - what was the kid thinking blabbing to Sam like that?

"We don't give a shit about them," Dean growls, even though that's not strictly true. There's a few kids there he wouldn't mind saving…Andy Gallagher for one. And maybe even the guy's brother; Dean had always thought the guy was a bastard but that was before he learned about this whole 'family' thing. He knows now he would probably do some of the things Ansem's done to keep Andy safe if it were _his _brother at risk – it's what brothers are supposed to do after all, he gets that now.

Still, it's not like he _could _do what Ansem does, even if he wanted to. Maybe if he could, he wouldn't be such a failure. Maybe if he could then people around him wouldn't get hurt or attacked or killed all the time. Maybe if he did have that sort of power, he wouldn't be so fucking terrified of bringing the past back up, of going down there to save the others.

Maybe, if he wasn't such a fucking coward he'd be answering Victor Hendrickson properly instead of cowering behind a wall of sarcasm and trying to hide exactly how much of a useless waste of space he is.

"Is that true?" Hendrickson asks, staring pointedly at Robby who ducks his head, shifting minutely closer to Dean.

"I agree with Dean," the kid replies, his voice flat, emotionless…_lying_.

Dean can't help but feel…something at that. Good old Scrap – loyal as ever. Dean knows Robby had a lot more friends in that place than he did...or so-called friends anyway.

Of course, if they beat Robby up then there was no-one to heal them and that didn't apply to the powerless, defenceless, useless piece of bait that just so happened to share the cell with him did it?

Dean's brought back to the present by the sound of Victor Hendrickson slamming the door behind him as he storms away and the young man smirks triumphantly even though he doesn't feel at all happy.

"Dean?"

Dean frowns as he feels Robby tugging gently on the sleeve of his fleece.

"Did we do the right thing?"

"Yeah," Dean replies absently, not wanting to dwell on the last few minutes.

"We ain't gonna get in trouble? I don't wanna get punished..." Robby mumbles, looking pleadingly at Dean.

"We ain't," the young hunter assures the kid, even though he's not at all confident about that. "I-I mean...we _went _to the dumb interview didn't we?" he continues, his facade crumbling as the weight of what he's just done starts to finally register. He has a feeling that he might have just pissed off a very dangerous person...

"Yeah but...we were rude, we didn't tell the truth..." Robby continues hesitantly, looking nervously about the room as though expecting someone to come in and beat the crap out of them at any minute – it wouldn't be the first time.

"Look, Scrap, even if we _do _get punished, it's better than having that guy know all our secrets. What do you think these people will do to you if they find out about your powers?" Dean asks earnestly; he doesn't want to spook Robby but the kid needs to remember what a dangerous game they're playing here, and, now he has **two **guys to protect, Dean can't afford to take any chances.

"You think everyone up here will be like Kubrick?" Robby asks nervously and Dean nods gravely in response.

"They will be, Scrap."

Robby looks down at the floor and Dean's alarmed that the kid looks on the verge of tears.

"Even-"

"**Even **Pastor Jim," Dean interrupts, his voice uncompromisingly harsh.

"Maybe not Sam," the young hunter continues as contemplates his brother's emerging powers. "But all the rest of them, they're all hunters, how do you **think **they're gonna react when they find out you have demon blood? _Especially _Pastor Jim, he's a **Christian**."

"But his aura-"

"You can't trust that!" Dean cuts his friend off again. "I know your powers are...look, I know you _think _you can trust him but you gotta stay sharp," he reasons, hating the way Robby's pouting at him like he's just been kicked or something.

"So who _can _we trust, Dean?" Robby exclaims. "I mean, everyone is down there! Andy and Ansem and Scott! Everyone!"

"It ain't our problem, Robby," Dean replies through clenched teeth, hating this conversation more and more every second.

"Not **yours**," Robby scowls resentfully, "You don't see what I do."

"I know, Scrap..." Dean sighs guiltily, knowing all too well how haunted Robby can be by his visions. "Look, we'll do something about it, okay? Just...not with these guys, right? We'll do it together, when we...we just need some time, alright?"

"Okay, Dean," Robby nods; Dean's not sure if the kid's agreeing just to keep him happy or if he's genuinely convinced but either way, the conversation is over just in time as the door to their room swings open with a groan.

"Dean, I'm-"

"It's alright, Scrap," Dean soothes, sensing his friend's panic. "It's all going to be alright."

But, as he sets eyes on the figure in the doorway, Dean has a feeling that things may never be 'alright' for the two of them ever again and, as usual, it will all be his fault.


	40. Chapter 40

**AN: Hi everyone, I hope you're all well. I am going away tomorrow for just under a week so I won't be able to respond to any reviews or anything until after then. Thank you so much for all your support over the last forty chapters! I've been writing this for more than a year now and it's so nice that people are still interested after all this time. Another milestone for this chapter, Bait is now over 100,000 words, hurray! :D**

Chapter Forty

"You think it's going alright in there?" Sam worries, trying not to fidget when he knows Dad is watching. He knows it hasn't been _that _long since Dean went in for his interview, not when he considers how much Hendrickson must have to ask about and how much Dean has to tell.

"Well, it doesn't sound like Dean's hit him yet," John replies with a grin and Sam can't help but smile a little too – it's been a while since he saw his father so relaxed and he doesn't want to ruin the rare moment with his own anxiousness.

"Are we that desperate that we class anything other than Dean hitting people as 'alright'?" the youngest Winchester asks, not entirely joking, and John just shrugs.

"It means the guy's got a better track record than me at least," the elder Winchester replies but his tone is light with wry amusement, not bitter and self-loathing as it probably would have been two weeks ago. "Well...Hendrickson hasn't been through what you've been through," Sam replies gently, feeling a little strange to be comforting his father after they've spent so long doing nothing but argue.

"What _we've _been through, all three us," John replies seriously**,** and Sam nods his acceptance - they've _all _had it tough.

But still... "I'm not sure Dean's ready to talk about...stuff," Sam admits, closely watching his father's face for any reaction.

For once, however, the eldest Winchester doesn't seem to be in the mood for secrecy – his answer is almost nonchalant with its bluntness. "He isn't."

Sam does a double take, not used to such blunt honesty from his father at a time when everything about the man seems to be shrouded in secrets and mystery. "But..."

"Look, if Dean doesn't want to talk then he's not going to talk," John tells Sam with a shrug. "You know how stubborn he is and, hell, it's not like he's going to be intimidated by Hendrickson, not after….everything."

Sam can't help but feel irritated by how casual his father is being when this is so serious. "Then why did you make him come?" he asks through partially-gritted teeth. "He was scared, Dad, this is really traumatic for him."

"Because we need to keep Hendrickson on our side," John replies determinedly. Make him think we're working with him - just tell him enough so he does his job but stays off our backs."

"You mean we're _not _working with him?" Sam frowns and Dad raises his eyebrows in a look that's so patronising Sam can _feel_ himself wilting under it.

"What?" the youngest Winchester snaps, feeling frustrated and angry. _This _is why they argue all the time, because Dad will never take him _seriously_, always having to take every opportunity to prove his supposed superiority.

"You're telling me you told Hendrickson the whole, honest truth?" John challenges, his tone laced with sarcasm and disbelief and, although Sam _loathes _to admit it, the man has a point…for once.

"Then why don't you tell it to me too, Sam? I'd like to know howyou knew what was going to happen at Pastor Jim's too."

"Who says I 'knew' anything?" Sam counters, stalling for time as he frantically debates what to do. He could just tell his father the truth; what a relief _that _would be, but then again, who knows how the man might react.

"Well, you were convincing enough to persuade your brother to break his own damn hand!" John glowers and Sam recoils from the anger in his father's eyes. He's never seen his father stare at him like that before and he doesn't like it. What's more, he doesn't _deserve_ it.

"_Persuade?!_" the young hunter echoes incredulously, "You think I **wanted **him to do that? You think it's _my_ fault?!"

"Well he's-"

"This is so _typical _of you, Dad!" Sam interrupts his father. "_You're _the one who handcuffed him to a bed even though he hates chains and hates having to be close to people. _You're _the one who walked away and left us completely defenceless but still it's _my _fault Dean wanted to get out of the cuffs?"

"You should have stopped him," John replies firmly and Sam stiles his cry of exasperation.

"I was _chained to the bed_," he exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration, "What was I supposed to do, restrain him _again_, have another one of his biggest fears come true?"

"Yes," John replies flatly, his eyes hard and emotionless. "If that was what it took. I thought I could trust you to follow my orders and stay away when I told you to, I thought I could trust you to make sure your brother did the same."

"But we _had_ to go," Sam replies, feeling drained after his outburst. Arguing with Dad is so difficult – even now the man's making him feel like shit and even though Sam _knows _he's in the right, there's only so many times you can bash your head against a brick wall before it takes its toll. "_Why, _Sam? Why?" Dad probes and Sam notices, with a little satisfaction, that the elder Winchester also sounds a little drained.

And then Sam just sighs – they're both exhausted and all he wants to do right now get this over with so he can check on Dean. What's the point in dragging this out and keeping secrets from his father? If he does that then he becomes just like the man and that's the last thing Sam wants to happen.

So, the young man takes a deep breath and stares his father straight in the eyes as he starts to speak.

"Because I had a vision of someone being shot at Pastor Jim's house and I thought it was going to come true…it did come true."

"You mean you imagined-" John begins warily and Sam cuts him off with a shake of his head.

"No, Dad, I saw it. I saw it in my head and I knew it was going to happen. It was a vision of the future, migraine and all, and it's not the first time it's happened," he states matter-of-factly.

"What?" John exclaims, "Boy you're not making sense."

"No, you're just not listening, you don't want to hear it," Sam replies frustratedly. "I saved your life, all of our lives because I **saw** **the** **future**!" he insists. "You should be _glad _I had that vision!" Sam cries out, almost yelling in his father's almost expressionless face.

He should have known Dad wouldn't be supportive, the man looks like he doesn't even _believe_ him.

Well that's fine, Sam decides as he rises to his feet. It isn't just Dad that he can turn to, there's one person who has no _choice _but to believe him. Not that his brother had ever shown any sign of disbelief, of course, he'd seem to take it perfectly in his stride as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. After seeing what Robby had done to Dean's hand though, Sam supposes it really isn't much out of the ordinary compared to that.

God…he can't be the best son, can't be the best hunter and now he can't even be the best freak.

As he hears a distant door slamming and the sound of Victor Hendrickson cursing, Sam figures he must not be the only one embroiled in an argument and since he doesn't think 'Robby Singer' could piss anyone off to that extent, that means that Dean is being his usual self and probably hasn't told Victor Hendrickson anything.

Which is, of course, what John Winchester had been planning all along…

…Goddamnit.

* * *

Standing in the cosy living room of Missouri Mosely's house, John forces himself to call upon his years of marine training and _not _squirm under the unsettling stare of the young woman in the corner.

Lily Mosely...in reality, she's probably one of the most unthreatening looking women in the camp. Frail and wan with limp blonde hair hanging past her shoulders and a pair of eyes that are always a little too glazed and vacant to show any emotion, there's nothing remotely intimidating about her appearance.

No...John muses as he tears his gaze away from the girl. It was just the whole death-touch thing that had him wanting to run from the room. Sure it's just if she touches you _now_ but...what if she gets stronger? What if, in a few years, she could kill with just a word? A look? A _thought_?

Goddamn...he's spending way too much time around Sammy these days.

"How...how are you, Lily?" John asks. He feels ridiculously guilty that it's an effort to treat Lily like a normal girl.

"You're here to see my Mom," Lily answers, her voice somehow managing to sound both apathetic and bitter at the same time. "You don't care how I am."

"Fine," John grumbles, moving into the next room without so much as a backward glance. If the woman can't be grateful that he's trying to be decent then screw her.

"You just wait right there, Johnathon!"

John freezes in place as Missouri's voice cries out from somewhere within the house and, seconds later, the woman appears, mug of steaming tea in one hand and teaspoon in the other.

"God damn, you been in here five seconds and already you two are bickering."

John wants to argue that it's been at least _ten_ seconds but-

"Ten, fifteen, it don't matter! You still can't go anywhere without kicking up a fuss the minute you get there. Lily, honey, you go to your room now, John and I need to talk."

Missouri carries on rambling as she ushers John into a chair and John tries not to even _think_ his annoyance at having his mind read.

"There we go..." the woman sighs as she seats herself in the battered armchair opposite, their knees almost touching. The room is big enough that the well-worn furniture could be well spaced apart but Missouri has the room filled with clutter. Old, salvaged paintings, their canvases burnt and smudged, a few old road signs that once represented authority and order were now meaningless, even to those who did remember freeways.

Jim Murphy's forever trying to get the woman to clear the junk out, protesting that the clutter can't be healthy for her but Missouri will simply fold her arms across her chest and shake her head.

'It's only as cluttered the average mind, Pastor James," she'll reply, flippantly waving away his concerns.

'But all this stuff-'

'It ain't just stuff to me, Jim,' she protests. 'These things, they got memories, they got _soul_ and I can feel it. It ain't my problem if you're too deaf to hear 'em talking.'

"Are you even listening to me, boy?"

John startles as he feels a rap on his head...that damned spoon...and he rubs sheepishly at the smarting spot.

"Now I see where your Sammy gets it from," Missouri grumbles. "Head in the clouds**,** both of you."

John wishes that were true, that his youngest son actually _did _take after him in some way but, as their earlier argument just proves, Sammy is nothing like his father.

"I need to make sure we can't be heard," John explains seriously, meeting Missouri's eyes solemnly before glancing nervously about the room.

"Lord in heaven there ain't no house better protected than this one!" Missouri replies dramatically, shattering the conspiratorial silence as she throws her hands up in the air. "You ought to that better than anyone, John!" she exclaims and John nods sheepishly in agreement.

The woman has a point. You wouldn't know it just from glancing at the room, hell you wouldn't know it even if you looked closely, but the whole house is surrounded by an aura of protection. And not just the normal demon wards either although the house does have its fair share of crucifixes and devil's traps too.

But no, it's the extra layers of magic heaped on top of all that that make this place so unique. It's the charms that mean, whenever anyone asks you for directions to Missouri Mosely's house, you suddenly can't remember your left from your right or the layout of Camp. It's the glamours that make it look so much less appealing from the outside than it is in reality. It's the wards that give you a feeling of foreboding whenever you approach and have most people picking up their pace as they walk by. And it's the dampeners that mean if a gun's shot within these walls, the sound won't echo past the front door.

_That's _what makes this place so unique, _that's _the reason Missouri does her readings in Pastor Jim's church hall rather than in the comfort of her own living room, _that's_ the reason that only a handful of people have ever stepped inside this otherwise ordinary house.

And the reason for all of _**that**_? A young blonde girl, barely out of her teens, whose just stormed upstairs to her invisible bedroom.

"Now how's Dean these days? You boys really need to visit this old lady more often you know, I damned near had a heart attack when Jim told me what happened the other night."

John chuckles at that, amazed how Missouri can put him at ease, just by being herself, even when she's talking about things which would be upsetting from anyone else's mouth.

"He's...he's doing better, I think. It's hard to know really, kid's up and down like a yoyo," the hunter sighs.

"Well I gotta tell you, John, I ain't in a hurry to go back in that boy's head again but if you need me to..."

John's grateful for the offer and he hopes Missouri knows it, but this time... "It's not about Dean, actually," he begins, looking away from his psychic friend as the awkwardness begins to creep in.

He can't believe Sam's put him in this position, it's freaking embarrassing! Samuel is a Winchester and Winchester's aren't crazies.

"Well then what _is _it about?" Missouri prompts patronisingly. "Because lord knows I ain't got all day to sit around drinking tea and chatting to you, John."

"It's about Sam," John replies.

"Aah, you two been fighting again..." Missouri nods thoughtfully and John raises his eyebrows in surprise at her insight, she must have…

"Don't you go getting all indignant with me, boy; I don't _need _to read your mind to know that much."

"Yes but, it's not the normal...this time he..." John breaks off with a muttered curse as he tries to figure out how to put this into words before giving up and just biting the bullet.

"Sam's decided that he can see into the future," he announces flatly. The statement sounding even more ridiculous out in the open than in his head and John cringes as he waits for Missouri's inevitably dramatic reaction.

Surprisingly though, it never arrives and the psychic just calmly takes a sip of her tea before speaking up. "And can he?"

"Wh-what?" John stammers, taken aback by the woman's calm and matter-of-fact reply.

"Well if the boy just thinks he can then he just needs a bit of sense knocking into him," Missouri replies, pointedly glancing to her discarded spoon. "But, if he actually is, then we got us some problems on our hands."

John just shakes his head in disbelief, spluttering as he searches for words before finally blurting out, "What do you mean 'if he actually _is_'? Did you hear me properly? He thinks he's _seeing the future_! Of course he isn't!"

"Then why is he saying that he can?" Missouri replies, still, ridiculous un-phased and this time it's John throwing his hands in exasperation.

"Damned if I know," he replies frustratedly, looking about the room as though the answer might be posted somewhere on the wall.

"Look, if Sam says he's seeing the future then he must have some reason to believe that he is," Missouri insists firmly.

"Well, I've got no clue," John shrugs wearily. "Maybe it's that Robby kid putting weird ideas in his head, I don't know, but it needs to stop, now. He reckons he gets 'visions', damned near announced it to the whole building when we were at Security."

"And you, of course, calmly and patiently talked through it with him, let him know you were there for him and that we would all work through it together," Missouri finishes sarcastically, rolling her dark brown eyes.

"No wait, you stormed off and came kicking up a fuss in my living room," the psychic finished, picking up her spoon and glaring with a look of annoyance and frustration, _daring _him to argue with her.

"Actually, _he _was the one who stormed off," John replies pedantically, hating that Missouri is taking Sam's side over his when Sam's the one spouting all sorts of crazy.

"Well I ain't surprised he wanted to get away if you're accusing the boy of having a screw loose, it musta taken a whole lotta heart for him to admit this to his no-nonsense Daddy" the psychic replies sadly, taking a final gulp of her tea and then continuing before John has a chance to reply.

"Look, John, whether he's having visions or not, you need to let him know that he can't tell anyone else about it."

"They won't take it seriously, they'll just think he's nuts. He's just traumatised from the other night, that's all," John replies dismissively, feeling real panic starting to set in at how seriously Missouri is taking this.

"No, John, they won't just 'think he's nuts'," Missouri replies, suddenly rising to her feet. "There are people out in this camp who do nothing but listen for these kinds of rumours. I been running from them for twenty years now, so trust me because I know."

John nods, feeling ashamed of his earlier flippancy about a subject so dear to his friend's heart.

"They're looking for a kid with special abilities."

"Yeah and that's..." John glances up to the ceiling, indicating the room upstairs.

"Lily," Missouri finishes. "Use her name, she's a girl not a monster. They're not just looking, they're _hunting _her and if they learn that there's _another _kid out there with supernatural abilities, one who - no offence here, John – but one who's a hell of a lot easier to kidnap then it don't take no psychic to figure out who they're gonna go after."

"Sam isn't...Sam isn't like Lily, he's just a normal kid!" John cries, also rising up from his seat.

"A normal kid who sees the future?" Missouri counters, craning her neck up to stare into John's wide eyes and John just shakes his head, frantically clinging to his denial.

"I-I need to go check on Dean," he stammers, as he begins to make his way to the front door.

"Now just you wait there a minute," Missouri chastises, clapping her hand on John's shoulder.

"Don't you go ignoring what your son is telling you – remember the mist," she orders. "If this carries on, you bring him to me and we'll get to the bottom of it."

John just nods wordlessly, three words echoing over and over in his head as he picks his way through the clutter to the front door.

"_Remember the mist..." _

John can remember the red haze of seeking mist hovering around his youngest son, it had seemed like nothing at the time but...John swallows a lump in his throat as his heart plummets into his stomach as, for the first time, John realises this that might actually be true and with that comes another realisation – the realisation that John Winchester is absolutely terrified.

* * *

**AN: Ok, I'm sorry, no Dean! But there had to be plot. Normal Dean angst will rsume shortly I promise! And I did promise someone some Sam angst so here's a little taster of that..**


	41. Chapter 41

**AN: Sorry for the delay everyone, I seem to be having a gigantic writer's block at the minute so if this chapter seems a little forced, well, that's because it was. I hope you all enjoy it anyway.**

Chapter Forty One

Dean can't believe his eyes as he stares, open mouthed at the figure in the doorway.

"No, no, no…" he can hear the whispers tumbling from his lips as Robby whimpers in fear, clutching at Dean's shoulder with trembling hands.

How the fuck could he have been so stupid as to have trusted John? What the hell had he been thinking?! Now he's royally fucked and so is Robby. Dean's put them both in danger by being dumb enough to actually put his faith in John Winchester. Now they're gonna get dragged back to their cell and it's all Dean's fault because he's a fucking screw up piece of Bait who's too fucking stupid to follow even one simple rule – trust no-one.

"Dean, I-I'm sorry, I wasn't looking, I-I didn't…Pastor Jim, he-he promised..."

God, how could he have put Robby in this position? Dean knows he deserves to go back to that hell for being such a fuck up but Robby…it's not Robby's fault, he's just a kid – it's Dean's fault for not looking after him.

"I'm sorry, Scrap," he whispers, barely able to speak through the fear and guilt pressing on him. The whole time he can't tear his eyes away from the figure in the doorway – the guy's broad shouldered frame barely fits though and Dean can see the outline of the man's muscles through the too-small tee shirt stretched over his chest. He knows this guy's strength all too well- even those bulging muscles don't do him justice.

"Fuck…" Dean curses quietly, too busy staring at the grim expression on the man's chiselled face to notice that he has his hands cuffed in front of him. The man's fringe is cut short enough so that the frown lines across his brow are clearly visible, as is the incline of his downturned, dark eyebrows.

"Oh god…"

Dean can feel Robby trembling and he finally tears his gaze away from Carlton to look at his terrified friend. Robby's grey eyes are blazing with fear, shimmering with frightened tears, it's almost like they're back in that hell-hole already.

"I told you we was gonna get punished!" Robby whispers tearfully, his voice trembling. "We shoulda done what he said!"

Dean can only stammer out a pathetic apology. All he ever seems to do is make things worse for everyone around him. This is why he doesn't deserve to have friends, why he doesn't deserve to have Sam treat him so kindly – well, maybe his little brother will finally realise what a fuck up he is now, he has to someday after all.

Edwin's teachings have never seemed so true as at this very moment as he watches one of his old handlers enter the room, ready to take back to a life of pain.

'_You're a tool. A tool doesn't make friends, a tool can't think for itself enough to make friends - it just fulfils its purpose, that's all. That's all you're here for, Bait, to follow my orders, do your job and fuck all else. No one would ever care enough about a piece of Bait to want to make friends with it. Do you even know how to talk nicely to anyone, how to make someone actually like you? All I ever seem to do is spend my days trying to beat some respect into you but you're too much of a fucking retard to get your head around that. You're lucky I even care enough to do it, some hunters cut out their bait's tongues so they can't scream, maybe I should…'_

It was just one of the many litanies Edwin would keep up while Dean would try and complete the overwhelming number of press-ups or sit-ups or crunches or squats that he'd been set.

When he was little he'd been stubborn, insisted otherwise. That he wasn't bait, that his 'Daddy' loved him, that he was a real person and he had a ton of friends at 'kindergarten'.

Dean gets it now though, that was just his younger self's way of trying to make him feel better. Making up some imaginary place (and really what kind of a name was 'kindergarten' – even at four years old he had been a freak) and fooling himself into believing that his father loved him.

Well, his loving father had just sent him into this trap and now he was facing the rest of his life as bait oh fucking why had he believed all that garbage from the older man?

'_I promised you I wouldn't let anyone take you back there.'_

It sounds ridiculous now; Fucking absurd and, deep down, Dean knows he deserves to go back down to Edwin's cells for being dumb enough to believe it but Robby shouldn't have to suffer for his stupidity too.

He'd believed John's lies that he'd shot Walker because the guy was going to take Dean back to his old life but now it's blindingly obvious – he'd shot Walker because _Sam _was in danger. Sam, the son he loves, the son he's spent twenty years looking after, the son he _hadn't_ sold off as bait to some madman - as if it would have _ever _been about Dean when Sam was at risk.

Well fuck him. John Winchester can just fuck off. So can Victor Hendrickson and as for William Carlton…

Dean hears Robby call his name as he springs from his seat but he's too busy relishing the fact he can move without pain, that he can actually fight at full strength with this guy for once.

Come on you bastard, Dean thinks as he throws out his punch, see if you're so tough when I'm not beat to shit.

He can't help but smirk as Carlton staggers backwards and he grits his teeth, swinging again and savouring Carlton's look of fear when the garbled Latin spewing from his mouth does nothing to halt his advance.

At least John did _something _for him.

His next blow connects with the man's forearm and he stumbles back as the man shoves him away with a meaty palm. Damn he's rusty, he thinks bitterly as he staggers back, landing hard on the floor.

"Dean!" Robby springs to his feet, and Dean bats away the kid's helping arm, determined to act tough even if has just been knocked on his ass.

"Hey!"

There's another voice and Dean looks up to see Officer Hendrickson shoving Carlton into the room. As if things weren't bad enough already, now he's got two bastards to deal with.

"Dean are you okay?" Robby whispers nervously to him and Dean nods, never taking his eyes off the two men who've just entered the room.

Hendrickson is yelling for 'back up' and Dean can't help but take a few, fearful paces away from the man, Robby instinctively doing the same. The guy's calling for more people to come and drag them back to Edwin.

Crap...it would be hard enough fighting Carlton or Hendrickson on their own, but the pair of them together, and with fuck knows how many others on the way...Dean knows he's royally screwed.

He wants to just run now; make a break for it and hope that he might get a bit of luck for the first time in his entire fucking life. But hell, he knows he doesn't get luck, whoever the hell doles out the luck in the world obviously doesn't give it out to bait.

So he can't fight and he can't run and that's the only two things he's any fucking good for. The only other option, he'd never normally consider but...fuck it all – if Hendrickson can call for help then...

Dean takes a deep breath and utters one frantic, frightened cry.

"Sam! Help!"

* * *

Sam sighs out deeply as he leans against the concrete wall. What he really needs is to go somewhere on the outskirts of camp and just let out the huge scream of frustration that's been building in him since he began his conversation with Dad but he doesn't want to go too far from Dean so a sigh will have to do for now.

Damn, he should've known that Dad would react like a jackass; the guy probably isn't even capable of a sane, rational, mature response like an actual adult. Hell, he'd even stormed out on Dean when the guy was traumatised and injured and he hadn't even seen the kid for twenty years. What chance then did Sam, the disappointment of a son that he'd been burdened with for two decades, have of getting through to the man?

Well whatever, at least his secret is out in the open now. He's still immeasurably freaked out by it but still, thank God he doesn't have to deal with it alone any more - Dad will doubtless run and tell Missouri and Pastor Jim even though Sam would really prefer to tell them himself. He knows the way Dad will just blurt it out he will make Sam sound crazy but at least Pastor Jim and Missouri might be sensible enough to take Dad's rambling with a pinch of salt.

Sam breaks off his thoughts momentarily as he hears a door open and the sound of what might be scuffling or, more likely, something completely innocuous – the Security lodge is hardly the most serene place on camp after all.

Yeah, anyway, as soon as Dean's finished with his interview, they'll drop Robby back at Pastor Jim's and, while they're there, Sam can talk about his visions to someone who might actually believe him. Someone who'll not only believe him but-

Sam startles as he hears a thumping sound and he pushes off the wall, treading cautiously towards Hendrickson's office. It could just be nothing but, knowing Dean's tendency to lash out and rub people up the wrong way it's most likely some kind of scuffle.

But then again...

Sam's hesitant to jump into action – Dad already thinks he's crazy and charging into the middle of Dean's security interview because he heard a noise wouldn't exactly do anything to diminish that idea.

No, it's only the next noise than spurs the young hunter into frantic, panicked action as he hears his brother's cry for help, his powerful legs taking him up the corridor and round the corner before his brain has even registered that he's moving.

"Dean!"

Sam panics as he reaches the entrance to Hendrickson's office blocked by Hendrickson himself and a man Sam doesn't recognise. They're blocking his way in and if he can't get in then it also means Dean can't get out.

The two men turn to look at him and Sam's eyes are immediately drawn to the red blotch on the unfamiliar man's cheek, the mark is fresh and almost certainly Dean's handiwork but Sam's more concerned about this man did to cause Dean to hit him than the state of the man's face.

"Sam, this is a private interview," Officer Hendrickson says sternly, sounding firm and composed but looking undeniably flustered.

Sam doesn't even bother to reply, pushing past the men into the room where he finds his brother and Robby coiled into their respective fighting stances looking like a pair of frightened, cornered animals. As he takes in the picture before him, Sam wonders sadly about how many times his brother has been in this same situation, frightened and helpless but not giving up.

"Mister Sam!"

Robby's delighted voice brings Sam back to the present and he makes a brief mental note to get the kid to stop with the 'mister' stuff.

"...you came." Dean exclaims softly, sounding almost surprised and Sam turns his head to look into his brother's hazel eyes. The gratitude in them takes him back; he doesn't think he's ever seen Dean look so...unguarded. And then to his utter astonishment, Dean actually breaks into what could just about pass as a smile looking over at Sam like he doesn't quite believe he's there.

"Thanks..." Dean continues and Sam _knows _he's just stood there grinning inanely at his older sibling like an idiot but he'll be damned if he can stop doing it.

"Samuel, what are you doing interrupting my interview. You know these are private and confidential."

Victor Hendrickson is back in the room, the strange man and another few other officers standing behind him.

"Then what's _he _doing here?" Sam points to the nameless man and then turns waves dismissively at the entire crowd. "And _them_. Why are they here?"

"Mister Sam please, they're going to take us back to our cell! _Please_...Pastor Jim promised they wouldn't, tell them he said they couldn't do it! Please, we're sorry-"

"What?!" Sam cuts Robby off with a angry exclamation of disbelief. What the _Hell _had Hendrickson done to make them think that? To be fair to the man, anything could have triggered the two men off but...Sam had **told **Hendrickson to handle Dean and his friend carefully. Damnit, he should have been there to support them! Why hadn't he been allowed to help?

Sam whirls to face Hendrickson, glowering at the man with a scathing a glare of indignation. He's perfected the look so well over the years of arguing with his father that Hendrickson actually looks a little worried to be on the receiving end of it.

"That's not- I never said anything-" Hendrickson stumbles over his words although Sam's a little relieved to note that the man does look genuinely surprised by Robby's outburst. Of course Dean and Robby have probably just interpreted something wrongly but Hendrickson should never have let them, should have reassured them!

"Whatever," Sam glowers at the officer. "This has gone on long enough, we're leaving."

Sam signals to Dean who creeps tentatively forward, giving Hendrickson as wide a berth as he can in the narrow doorway, Robby close behind.

Sam quickly leads them out of the Security building, ignoring Hendrickson's complaints and they efficiently make their way out to the outskirts of camp. Sam really doesn't think that his brother could deal with being around a lot of people right now.

Only when Security has disappeared completely out of sight behind them does Sam notice Dean relax even a fraction.

"You're sure they ain't gonna come after us?" Robby asks for probably the third or fourth time and Sam can't help but chuckle a little as Dean forcibly pries the boy's hand off his sleeve.

"They won't," Sam assures the kid when it's obvious Dean's not going to offer any reassurances. Well, Sam figures he can't really expect Dean to be much good at comforting, not normally and especially not when he's so obviously upset.

"You sure, Mister Sam?" Robby asks nervously and Sam nods patiently.

"They would have caught up to us by now," he explains and Robby nods cautiously, still not looking entirely convinced. Sam can't help but feel sorry for the kid - to be so afraid all the time...he can't imagine it, doesn't want to imagine it.

Sam watches with interest as the kid whispers something to Dean who scowls in response.

"Don't be an idiot."

Sam's desperately intrigued about what Robby just said but he knows better than to ask. Maybe he can ask Dean in private later. He knows it's petty but he can't help but feel shoved out when he sees the dynamic between his brother and Robby. Robby has a unique insight into Dean's character, his past, his moods, his fears...basically the kid knows everything about Dean whereas Sam, his own damned **brother**, has barely scratched the surface.

Yes he's being petty and irrational. No he _doesn't_ care about it right now thank you very much.

Robby looks petulant for a few seconds as he mutters "It was just an idea," but he soon seems to shrug off the attitude, turning to Sam with a smile.

"Thanks for coming to save us, Mister Sam," he beams and, just like that, Sam feels a total ass for resenting the kid.

"You can just call me Sam," Sam replies gently, watching as the blonde's expression goes from cheerful to apprehensive and he glances briefly at Dean who nods his approval.

"It's ok, Scrap," the elder Winchester promises. "It's fine."

And Sam wishes they could just stop for a minute so he could process how pretty awesome that is - Dean is actually telling Robby that, at least to some extent, Sam can be trusted.

Well, it's not a responsibility he's going to take lightly, Sam decides, subconsciously puffing out his chest. Dean's not the only one who can play big brother around here.

"Really, I'd prefer it if you just called me Sam," the youngest Winchester smiles, noticing Robby's still anxious expression.

"O-okay, I'll try," Robby stammers. "Where are we going...Sam?"

"I thought we'd go and visit Pastor Jim," Sam replies casually and it takes him a few seconds to realise that Dean and Robby have stopped walking with him. "Guys?"

"We ain't going back there, Sam," Dean declares, his voice wary and cautious as he watches Sam backtrack the short distance through narrowed eyes.

"What? What do you mean? Why not?" Sam questions as he tries to figure out his two companions change in demeanour.

"'Pastor Jim' was in on this whole thing with John," Dean answers sullenly. "There's no way we're going back to him."

"They didn't 'set you up', Dean," Sam replies wearily, he _really _just wants to see Pastor Jim and talk about this whole 'visions' thing, can't Dean just cooperate for once?

Dean just scowls and Robby does his best to copy but with slightly less intimidating results. Sam tries not to chuckle at the unintentional double act, Dean would probably take it as quite a hit to his ego as obviously, Sam is _meant _to be intimidated right now.

"Seriously, Dean, they didn't," Sam tries again.

"Seriously, Sam, we're not going back there," Dean mimics mockingly and Sam rolls his eyes as Robby giggles.

The laughter doesn't last long as the kid pauses thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side.

"Scrap, don't," Dean warns and Sam can tell something important is happening though he has no idea what. Whatever Robby's up to doesn't take long as he turns and whispers in Dean's ear again – for someone as curious and sociable as Sam it's a slow form of torture being blocked from this conversation.

"What is _wrong _with you today?" Dean exclaims, shoving Robby lightly, his reaction even more vehement than the first time and Robby pouts before turning to look at Sam, casting a brief glower in Dean's direction.

"_I _believe you," he announces. "Dean doesn't but I do."

Sam doesn't have long to dwell on it before Dean cuts in.

"Shut up, Scrap, you don't know what you're talking about," the elder man scowls before turning to Sam. "Look, I believe that you _think _they didn't set us up. Like...you're lying but it-it ain't your fault."

"No, Dean, I _know _they didn't set you up," Sam counters, he can't believe how much of a battle this is turning into – how long have they been stood here for now? It must be coming up to five minutes at least. "Dad wouldn't do that and neither would Pastor Jim, I **promise**."

"_See?_"Robby adds smugly, moving to stand by Sam's side.

Sam's happy for a few moments - it's progress at last! – but his smile soon fades under the glare Dean sends his way.

"Robby get back here before I kick your ass," Dean seethes and Sam actually flinches, he'd thought Dean and Robby were so close but...Dean looks furious.

"No, Dean, I'm going to see Pastor Jim and see what he says, I'll know if he's lying or not," Robby announces although his brief burst of confidence doesn't last long.

"Dean...please don't be mad."

"I'm not 'mad'..." Dean begins and Sam and Robby breathe a collective sigh of relief.

"...I'm fucking pissed," Dean finishes and Sam has to fight not to yell with frustration – he's never, ever, ever, in his twenty years of life, met anyone as stubborn as Dean Winchester, even their father would be impressed with this display of pig-headedness.

"But, _Dean_..." Robby protests softly, moving forward until his face-to-face with the elder man. "We _have_ to go back to Pastor Jim and your family."

"No we don't," Dean replies flatly.

"Yes we _do_," Robby argues, Sam can see the kid's hands clenching into fists. "We can't stay out here, Dean, we don't go no food, no water, we don't know how those stupid papery things work, Pastor Jim tried to show me but it's so complicated, Dean, and all those people are still after us and I can't look out for them all time, I got to sleep sometimes and if I don't-"

"Alright!" Dean exclaims,

"We don't got any weapons either, we should at least get weapons. I mean, we're gonna have to steal if we don't go back and if we get caught we're gonna need-"

"I said alright!" Dean interrupts again, throwing his arm in the air. "Alright we'll go if it'll shut you up," he mutters, stomping forwards.

Sam wants to cheer but he settles for just following his brother, impressed that the guy even knows the direction. He smiles at Robby as he does so and the kid beams happily opening his mouth to speak;

"I mean it Scrap, you gotta shut up for the whole way there" Dean speaks from a foot or so ahead and Sam has to fight not to laugh at the look of indignation on Robby's face.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You just did," Dean answers back but Sam can hear the smirk in his voice and he knows he's getting a rare glimpse at Dean's very infrequent sense of humour.

"But-but that's cos you-"

"Still talking-" Dean interrupts snappily but Sam's sure that his brother is all out grinning now.

"But-but, I just need to say one thing-"

"Nope."

"Let me just-"

"Don't care, Scrap."

And as Sam listens to the two men bickering he wonders just **what **exactly it is he's bringing to Pastor Jim's and, more importantly, if he can ever be part of it.


	42. Chapter 42

**AN: Hi everyone, first things first, this chapter is unbetad so apologies for that.**

Secondly, I am moving back to university tomorrow so I probably won't have internet until Thursday so I won't be able to respond to stuff until then.

**Thirdly I just wanted to put in a little bit about Robby cos I've been getting a lot of messages and things about him. The reason that I put Robby into fic as Dean's cellmate was something I found pretty unavoidable. I felt that if Dean hadn't had _someone_ actually nice, someone to share positive emotions like love and trust with then he would have grown up to be either feral or just a complete sociopath. I just didn't feel that I could write a convincing recovery for a character like that and this fic is all about Dean's journey of healing. Creating an OC gave me the freedom to tailor his personality to whatever characteristics I felt would be appropriate and also give him a backstory which I hope will be intersting to some people. At the moment he is playing a prominent role in the fic but I felt that that was inevitable given the relationship of him and Dean, which as I said, I thought was essential to have. But, although at the minute he may seema little Stu-ish, let's not forget that both Dean and Robby are very, very socially dusfunctional individuals - their relationship is not just going to be sunshine and light all the time. Sam has different things to offer Dean both as a friend and a brother, things that Dean could never get from Robby, but Dean just doesn't know how to trust him enough to see that yet, if you follow? Anyway, this is getting really stupidly long now so I'm going to cut it off but I hope that answers a few questions people might have, Robby's role will not always be so predominant I promise. **

Chapter Forty Two

As soon as they reach the house, Robby bounds ahead and Sam can't help but smile as he watches him run ahead. Dean however slows his pace until he's nearly at a stop and Sam casts a curious look back at the elder man.

"Dean? You okay?"

Dean just looks at the floor and shrugs, his face pale, and Sam instantly knows without doubt that Dean definitely isn't okay.

"Dean?" he prompts again, worried by his brother's silence; usually Dean would make even a token act of being 'fine'.

"...I'm not going in there."

Sam opens his mouth to instinctively assure Dean that Pastor Jim's house is safe and that Dean will be fine, but then changes his mind. Maybe this time he won't force Dean to be brave, maybe this time, for once, he'll just let Dean do what he needs to to feel safe, Dean deserves that after everything he's been through today.

"Okay," he replies gently and Dean's brief look of confusion is almost upsetting. Have they really handled Dean _that _badly? No, Sam decides, Dean's just weary that's all.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want to," he continues gently and Dean nods warily.

"A-are you going?" he asks tentatively and Sam wonders what answer Dean wants to hear. Does his older brother want to be alone? Is that why he doesn't want to go inside? Or does he want Sam with him because he's frightened and untrusting of anyone else? Sam selfishly hopes it's the latter.

"I would quite like to stay out here with you," he replies cautiously. "But if you want to be alone then-"

"No!" Dean's vehement reply is a sharp contrast to his subdued tones from earlier. "I-I mean...whatever, do what you want, I don't care."

Sam tries not to smile at Dean's weaker than usual attempt at bravado.

"Well, I'd like to sit and talk with my brother outside for a while," he replies with a slight grin, moving to sit against a low wall nearby. He tries to remember that the last time he paid any attention to this wall was when he was trying to order Dean to hide behind it.

Dean follows, lowering himself down to the ground and sitting, for once, within Sam's reach. Sam pretends not to notice the altered distance while inside he's whooping for joy. He wonders if the novelty of Dean actually showing some trust will ever wear off.

"I just...I wanted to say...I..." Dean fumbles his words and Sam just sits patiently, giving his brother the space he needs.

"I wanted to say...to say thank you. You know? For helping us and...I just...thanks."

Dean's words are stammered and uncomplicated but somehow all the more honest for their ineloquence and Sam nods his acceptance.

"It's alright, Dean, it's what brothers do."

"Right. I kinda get it...it's just..." Dean sighs in frustration and Sam winces in sympathy, knowing how hard it must be for Dean to express such a complex mix emotions with his limited vocabulary.

"I just...I can't believe that anyone can be nice someone forever. Not someone like me. I mean...you-you say that family won't ever hurt you but...how can you promise that?"

Sam pauses for thought as Dean glances over at him, trust Dean to stumble on a complex psychosocial issue without even realising it. "It's not that they won't ever, ever hurt you, Dean, no-one could promise that. It's more that...family – me, Dad, Pastor Jim, we won't ever hurt you on _purpose_."

Dean just pauses and Sam swallows heavily. He's been putting this off for so long but now...now it just doesn't seem like such a big deal. He only hopes it won't be to Dean either.

"You know, that ritual to wipe off your binding contract..."

Sam watches Dean shudder at the memory and he shivers himself as he remembers Dean's howls of pain.

"Well, I...I told you I didn't help in that but, I mean...really, I did. I'm sorry."

Dean whips his head round at that, glaring through narrowed eyes.

"You did that to me?"

Sam nods timidly. "I didn't tell you before because-"

"You mean you _lied_," Dean growls and Sam nods his reluctant acceptance.

"I 'lied' because I thought you wouldn't trust me if I told you the truth. I did help in the ritual, I didn't know what was going to happen but I was there, I did help. The thing is, Dean, hear me out here, that ritual was painful, it did hurt you _but _we did it to help you. We can't promise that we'll never hurt you but it will never be on purpose, never out of malice. That's what I mean."

And then Sam just waits for Dean's judgment. Will his brother feel betrayed by his earlier lie or will the elder man be able to forgive him? It's hard not to prompt his older brother into replying as the silence seems to stretch on forever.

"I think...it's a different kind of hurt," Dean finally mumbles. "Edwin...he-he used to like it, he used to laugh and play games when he hurt me. You didn't do that, John didn't..."

"Laugh?! Dad cried for hours after we did that. He bought you painkillers with his ration coupons, they're so expensive that he couldn't eat for days."

Dean's eyes widen at that, his expression bewildered and unbelieving.

"Pastor Jim and Missouri gave him some food and I loaned him some coupons or he would have been pretty damned hungry by the time you got better," Sam laughs.

"Oh wait, I'm not supposed to tell you that," Sam chuckles and Dean even manages a tiny flicker of a smile before that look of confused amazement is back on his face.

"John did that...for me?" Dean stammers and Sam nods, suddenly realising how incredibly meaningful this is to his brother. Damn, Dad's done this so many times for him that Sam just takes it for granted, it's something that all fathers do for their sons but of course, for Dean, the idea of someone doing anything with his wellbeing in mind is completely alien.

"I know he's upset you and hurt you sometimes, Dean, he's been doing it to me for twenty years - I even argued with him just before I met up with you," Sam laughs ruefully, he can't believe that it's taken Dean to give him a little perspective about how, in the scheme of things, Dad's irritating behaviour really is just that – an irritation and Sam's blown it all out of proportion.

"He's an ass sometimes, Dean, but he's doing what he thinks is best, even if it's not right." Sam wonders if Dean realises that _both _of them need to learn this lesson.

"Like...cuffing us to the bed?" Dean asks cautiously and Sam nods.

"Yeah that was dumb, really dumb, but he thought he was doing the right thing, whatever that was," Sam smiles but Dean doesn't reciprocate, remaining worryingly subdued.

"When I used to get chained up before...it wasn't to help me," Dean whispers and Sam's breath catches in his throat.

Sam clenches his jaw, wincing at the fear and loneliness in Dean's voice.

"Dean..."

"It wasn't to keep me safe...just to keep me still so I couldn't fight them when they beat me. So I couldn't runfrom whatever monster wanted a chunk outta me. Most of the time, just cos I hated it and they liked to see me scared..."

Dean sounds so young and haunted that Sam can't help but reach out a comforting hand to his older brother. Dean flinches instinctively from the touch but doesn't scramble away, just staring into some memory that only he can see.

"Dad didn't know that, he wouldn't have done it if he knew," Sam explains softly and Dean just shakes his head.

"Doesn't matter..."

"You could try to talk to him about...you know, stuff....this."

Dean shakes his head at that, looking instantly panicked and Sam, as he thinks back to his earlier, explosive conversation with Dad and realises that it might not be the best idea for Dean to bare his soul to Dad alone.

"We could talk to him together if you like?" Sam continues cautiously and Dean just stares at the dirt.

"Not today?" his voice comes out as little more than a plea and Sam just pats his brother's shoulder reassuringly, this is probably the most physical contact Dean's ever tolerated from him.

"Only when you feel ready, Dean," he promises and Dean nods.

"That guy in the Security...he wanted me to tell him everything but...I don't want to remember Sam..."

Sam watches, horrified, as Dean's eyes redden and tear, the man's voice growing hoarser and even quieter than before.

"I don't...I just...in my memories I'm just scared all the time, scared and lonely and hurt and...why do I have to think about that? John said I wasn't bait any more, he said I'm Dean Winchester now. Why can't I just be him now, Sam? I don't wanna be bait, I don't want to think about it. I want to be Dean, just Dean. Can't I be Dean?"

Sam withdraws his hand, running it through his hair as he tries to somehow wrap his brain around Dean's desperate plea for acceptance. All this time he's been so focussed on getting Dean to move forward and Dad's been so convinced that Dean's tough enough to handle everything that comes his way, they've both just lost perspective of how traumatised Dean really is, fooled by the man's mask of apathy.

Now Sam realises, how can Dean move on without making peace with his earlier memories? He's just been bottling all this stuff inside with no one to explain to him that it wasn't his fault, that he didn't deserve what he went through, that the lies he was told aren't true. _That_,Sam realises, is where he needs to start, but, with twenty years of abuse and pain to deal with, is peace something that's even achievable for his big brother?

* * *

Dean can feel himself crying and shaking as he sits beside his younger brother but, for once, he just can't bring himself to care. From the minute he saw William Carlton he's been fucking petrified and now, learning about what John did for him, what Sam did _to _him, it's all so fucking much. He's just bait, he can't deal with all this.

But he's not now - he doesn't want to be bait any more. He wants to be Dean Winchester...whoever that is.

Is Dean the four year old brat who had screamed and howled for his Daddy for hours on end? Is the Dean the one who clung to that distant, faded promise of rescue while 'the bait' just gave up hope? Is Dean the person who forces himself not to run when Sam touches him on the shoulder while the bait flinches in terror?

Dean stares down at his hands and wonders...

"You never were bait, Dean," Sam's voice is strained as he replies to Dean's outburst. "They made you feel like you were, made you believe that you were but you've always been Dean Winchester, my brave big brother, all along."

Dean instinctively shakes his head in the face of Sam's compliment.

"m'not brave," he mumbles, all too aware of the fear coursing through his veins. "Just scared all the time. Been scared since...forever," he continues, talking more to himself than to Sam. At this point, he's beyond acting tough - he cried out for Sam to come save him from Hendrickson and Carlton, how can he have any pride after _that_?

"I think you are," Sam replies. "Missourri thinks you are, and John and Pastor Jim."

"Then you guys are idiots," Dean chokes out miserably. "You don't know how I feel."

"Dean..." Sam sighs. "It's _normal _for you to feel afraid. Being brave doesn't mean that you're never scared, it just means that, when you _are_ scared, you face up to it and don't run away – you do that all the time, I've seen you."

Dean just bows his head, embarrassed by his brother's misplaced faith. "I would run away if I could, Sam," he admits. "If I could just....not."

Dean sighs and swallows a lump before trying again.

"If I didn't have to deal with...everything, then I wouldn't."

"We _all _feel like that, Dean," Sam replies and Dean instinctively shakes his head before pausing momentarily. What right does he have to disagree with Sam? What would _he _know about how normal people feel? Sam's the normal one so it makes sense he would know what normal people feel like. But then...

"But if I...if I am...if I _was _bait, then why...how can I feel the same as normal humans?"

"You're not bait, Dean," Sam replies. "Remember? We covered that. You're not bait, you never were and you never will be again."

Dean looks away so Sam won't see the doubt in his eyes. He wants to believe his brother, god he does. He _should _believe his brother, and John too but...Edwin told him...

Dean shakes his head, knowing that if he could just clear out some of these thoughts he would figure out the answer.

_Who am I? What am I now? _

John said that his purpose now was to be a big brother but how does he do that? He doesn't know anything about family, didn't even know he _had _one until recently so how's he supposed to know what to do? Is he going to get punished now if he's not a good big brother?

Dean clenches his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut. He's just got so used to being without the pain and seeing Carlton just reminded him of...everything.

"What's happened, Dean?" Sam asks softly. "What are you thinking about?"

Dean opens his eyes and looks into his brother's concerned face he's surprised to see that the guy is actually interested in his answer. It's only a shame that he has nothing of worth to say...

* * *

"Dean?" Sam prompts again as his brother looks away. He can't believe Dean hasn't stormed off or yelled at him by now. He's not sure if this new, subdued Dean is better or worse than the brother he's come to know.

"Who was that man, Dean?" he asks when Dean shows no sign of replying.

His brother licks his dry lips before answering. "Carlton."

"Who's that?" Sam continues, hoping he isn't pushing Dean too hard.

"He...he's one of Edwin's men," Dean replies nervously. "So when I saw him I-I thought..."

Sam sighs in a mixture of sympathy and frustration. How scared Dean must have felt seeing that man again, _believing _that he'd been set up. How dumb of Hendrickson not to tell Dean what was going on.

"Why is he with Hendrickson?" Dean asks cautiously. "Are they on the same side? Are they working together?"

"No, Hendrickson's not on his side," Sam replies, reminding himself that, although to him the idea of Officer Hendrickson working with a criminal is ridiculous, to Dean it's a very real possibility. "Carlton is in custody."

"In custody?" Dean echoes and Sam pauses as he wonders how to explain without sounding patronising or giving Dean the wrong idea.

"Well, when someone is accused of breaking Code they're kept at Security until we can figure out what's happened."

"Kept there how?" Dean asks and Sam hopes he's not about to trigger some other flashback as he replies.

"They're kept in a cell."

"Locked in there?" Dean questions and Sam nods, not liking the malicious gleam in his brother's eyes.

"Will they starve him and beat him too?" the older man continues and Sam shakes his head warily.

"No, Dean, they...that doesn't happen." The young hunter can't help but feel disturbs as Dean seems to deflate at that.

"Shame."

"Would you like them to do that?" Sam asks cautiously, not really sure that he wants to explore this malicious, vengeful side of his brother but, at the same time, unable to stop himself asking questions.

"He deserves it," Dean snaps in response, his tone suddenly defensive. "You know...Edwin used to let him have longer for a food break if he ate his meals in front of my cell? He used to do it, Sam – just sit there and eat while I..." Dean breaks off, his eyes tearing up again. "I was so, so hungry. If he knew what it felt like..."

"I-I'm sorry, Dean," Sam stammers. He can remember, if closes his eyes, how gaunt and thin Dean had been when they'd first seen him. How he'd tried to convince Sam and probably himself that he wasn't ravenous with hunger when he hadn't eaten for four days. The astonished look on his face when he'd realised he could eat, and at the table too..."

"Doesn't matter," Dean shrugs, his tearful tone becoming harder and colder as he seems to detach himself from his memories. "Don't pity me, I hate that."

"I'm not," Sam replies. "I'm apologising for, you know, judging you when you said you wanted those things to happen to that man. I don't blame you for feeling like that."

"Don't Sam..." Dean's reply is whispered, his gaze firmly fixed on the ground. "I know I'm fucked up."

"Dean! No... "Sam protests but the older man cuts him off.

"I say the wrong thing, _do _the wrong thing, think the wrong thoughts. I piss people off all the time, I don't know why you waste your time with me."

"It's not a waste, Dean," Sam insists. "And you're not 'fucked up', just..." He wants to say 'traumatised' but isn't sure if Dean would appreciate or even understand the term.

"It's just gonna take a little while," he finishes and Dean finally glances upwards for a moment.

"I'm trying, Sam," he mumbles and Sam can't help but smile.

"I know you are, Dean. You're doing great," he replies ad Dean shrugs with one shoulder.

"I just forget sometimes...most of the time," Dean laughs hollowly and Sam simple repeats himself.

"You're doing great, Dean, we're all proud of you." It's bittersweet to watch Dean struggle to respond, the guy so unfamiliar with praise and compliments.

"Even John?" Dean questions. "I-I mean I don't care but...."

Sam can't help but chuckle at Dean's unconvincing attempt at apathy.

"Dad most of all," the younger man replies.

"But what if...what if I take too long and he gets sick of me?"

Sam flinches internally at yet another saddening insight into Dean's insecurities. "That's not going to happen, Dean, ever."

"Walker was patient with me at first," Dean states after a pause, his tone hollow and afraid.

Sam tries to force the memory of Walker's bloody corpse, of Kubrick felled by Sam's own bullets – everything of that entire night out of his brain so he can concentrate on Dean.

"He'd tell Edwin not hit me so hard, that I was just a kid. He'd even sneak me blankets and food even though Edwin would give him hell over it."

Sam just nods encouragingly, surprised at Dean's openness.

"He'd apologise after he beat me, tell me I wasn't a freak like the rest of the children, that I was 'just one unlucky little bastard'."

"Sam can imagine Gordon Walker saying those words and it makes him sick.

"Apart from when Edwin ordered it, he never really beat me, apart from when I cried."

Sam breathes deeply, trying not to lose his breakfast.

"I didn't cry hardly ever!" Dean quickly adds, as though _that's _an important detail. "But if I did he'd punch me for 'trying to guilt trip him' and 'for making him out to be a bastard'."

Sam squeezes his hands into fists – Dean actually sounds like this is a _good _memory and he's dreading the 'bad' part.

"It wasn't his fault, you see," Dean explains and Sam imagines his brother at four, five, six years old, hearing that and believing it.

"Eventually he stopped calling me 'kid' and 'buddy', just 'Bait' like everyone else. Said he had to stop putting his ass on the line for me, that I wasn't worth it cos I was just bait and I couldn't repay him."

Sam wants to reply, really he does; he wants to comfort his brother, to explain that none of that makes Gordon Walker 'nice' or 'kind'. That if this man had really cared then he would have got some help for Dean and the other children. But all that's stuck in his chest, trapped under the lump in his throat.

"He got mad at me for pissing Edwin off all the time, said it was my own fault that I got beaten, that it was my own fault, that I deserved what happened to me. He was the one who held me down when Edwin...my arm...you know? He said I brought it on myself."

Sam nods again, helpless to do anything else.

"So when John was gonna shoot him that first time I-I thought I could finally repay him, you know?"

"Dean..." Sam finally stammers and the older man seems to finally snap out of his daze as he abruptly stands up.

"Whatever. He's dead now isn't he?"

"Yeah..." Sam responds nervously, also standing up, unnerved by Dean's sudden change in mood from tentative and afraid to so suddenly cold and unfeeling. It's only the question in his tone that reveals his vulnerability.

"Good," Dean replies harshly. "I'm glad."

"Dean?" Sam queries as Dean glares.

"He's one of the nicest people I ever met and I'm glad he's dead," Dean all but spits. "So how can you say I'm not fucked in the head after that?"

Sam just shakes his head, his eyes tearing as the shock and horror of everything he's just had to listen to finally hits him in the wake of Dean's aggression.

"Well, Dean..." he forces out tearfully. "We must all be fucked up together because I'm glad he's dead too and Dad...Dad would be even more delighted he'd killed him if he knew all that."

Dean pauses for thought before finally speaking, some of the harsher edges fading from his tone.

"I wouldn't be glad if you died, Sam."

And all of a sudden, for Samuel Winchester, this whole, sickening conversation has been worth it, and, if that's all it takes to make him smile after hearing all of that then maybe he's the most screwed up of them all.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter Forty Three

"Hello Scrap, how did it go?"

Pastor Jim is smiling as Robby enters the house and he smiles back reflexively. He isn't really feeling happy at all but he likes seeing people smile at him, it's a nice change from the scowls and glares that he's used to.

"Scrap?" Jim prompts and Robby shakes his a little as he remembers, he's actually _supposed _to speak now. People _want _to hear what he has to say...weird.

"It-it went...bad," he stammers, hoping Pastor Jim won't be mad with him. He wishes he could say that everything went great, that he'd been good and done the right thing but...that would be lying. Robby knew better than to tell lies, the truth usually got him beat up, yeah, but lies got him beat a whole lot more.

"Bad?" Pastor Jim asks gently as he walks over and Robby nods, staring at the floor. Pastor Jim doesn't sound mad but Robby knows he could just be faking, he knows better than to risk looking the man in the eyes – just in case.

"Why was it bad, Scrap?"

"Cos..." Robby shrugs, wishing he had the words to be able to explain everything. If only he was as smart as Pastor Jim or Dean's little brother, then he'd know how to say everything.

"Carlton was there. Me and Dean got scared...we ran." Robby pauses as he swallows the lump forming in his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Carlton?" Pastor Jim echoes and Robby just nods timidly. "Who's Carlton?"

"Oh..." Robby pauses as he listens to the Pastor. It's still weird to hear people who don't recognise the names he mentions. In Edwin's camp, everyone knows everyone else.

"He-he, um...he was a guard," Robby explains. "He used to...e-escort us to...places."

Robby shivers as he remembers the man's hands gripping him...holding him... dragging him.

"He was the man you know, you tasered," he continues, trying not to be happy at the memory. Carlton would sure be mad if he found out that someone had laughed at him being hurt.

"You saw him?" Jim asks and Robby panics for a moment, does Pastor Jim think he's lying? Of course he does, why wouldn't he? Scrap knows he's a demon freak after all and demons lie all the time.

"He was there, Sir, I promise. Officer Hendrickson and two guards brought him into the room and he...we..."

"You thought he was going to take you back to Edwin's place..." Pastor Jim finishes and Robby nods in amazement.

"Yes Sir," he agrees, wondering how the man could know what they'd been thinking. Did Pastor Jim have a special power too? But no...Edwin always said they had all their family together barring one person so that can't be right.

"We...we ran away. I'm sorry," Robby admits, bowing his head as he waits for the punishment he's earned.

To his surprise though, Pastor Jim doesn't hit him, doesn't even yell, just runs a hand through his greying hair and sighs. "I don't blame you for running, son. Are you okay?"

"Y-yes sir, I'm fine," Robby stammers uncertainly, wondering why Pastor Jim is asking if he's okay when he should be yelling and ordering him back to Security, to finish the task he'd been ordered.

"Where's Dean?" Jim asks and Scrap answers quickly, eager to prove he can be useful, that he knows some stuff; he wants to be honest and give the right answers.

"He's outside with Mister Sam, Sir, I can go get him if you like?"

"No...no that's alright, let him be, you boys must've had quite a shock," Jim replies quietly and Robby just shrugs again, unsure of whether to agree or just to remain silent.

"I just wish I'd seen him coming," Robby sighs quietly to himself as he risks a quick glance in his mind's eye, the fleeting glimpse of Dean and his brother sat outside reassuring him that everything's alright.

"Ah son, if I had a dollar for every time I'd thought that..." the pastor sighs as he sits himself back in his chair, motioning for Robby to seat himself on the couch.

"What's a dollar?" Robby asks as he sinks into the comfortable couch, relaxing a fraction as his body finally begins to unwind.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Pastor Jim replies and Robby just nods - that's fine with him, he probably wouldn't get it anyway.

"So, did you manage to tell Officer Hendrickson anything before you...departed," the pastor asks with a slight grin and Robby ducks his head, embarrassed and afraid.

"No Sir."

"There's a lot of 'Sirs' today, Scrap."

Robby can _hear _the smile in the Pastor's voice even if he doesn't dare look up to see it and he just shrugs again."I'm sorry, Pastor Jim."

"It's alright, kid," Jim soothes and Robby flinches as he feels a hand on his shoulder. Glancing out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the Pastor has stood up again and is standing over him with a look of concern.

"This whole thing shook you up a bit, huh?" he asks and Robby allows himself to nod a fraction since Dean isn't here to see him admitting his weakness. He barely even flinches as Jim sits himself down next to him on the couch.

"Guess you must think I lied to you, right? You gotta be feeling pretty mad about that."

Scrap nods because he knows that agreeing is usually the right thing to do but then the words finally sink in and he shakes his head before giving up and just shrugging his shoulders.

"I don't know."

"No?" Jim prompts softly and Robby turns his face away, confused and afraid of the mixture of feelings swirling in his head.

"I-I was scared but I'm okay now."

"Really okay?" Pastor Jim checks and Robby smiles sadly at the man's playful questioning.

"M'not sure how that feels..." he mumbles quietly and Pastor Jim just sighs, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I didn't lie to you, Robby. I didn't know you were going to have to see that man again, I don't understand why Hendrickson brought him to you."

"I think..." Robby swallows a lump in his throat before continuing, he _really _isn't looking forward to admitting this bit. "I think maybe 'cos we made him mad."

To his surprise though, Pastor Jim doesn't yell or scream or demand to know what he was thinking, instead the man just shakes his head and replies in the same calm, collected tone as always. "It doesn't matter, Scrap, no matter what you did he doesn't have the right to scare you both like that."

Robby's not really sure what that means but he's happy just to sit there, Pastor Jim's hand on his shoulder, and let the man talk.

"Really, Scrap, I'm sorry you had to go through this," Jim adds and Robby just nods.

"It's okay," he replies, because what does it matter if he got scared or something? What does it matter if someone lied to him? People trick you all the time, it's just life.

"No, it's not," Pastor Jim replies and Robby tenses a little, fear gripping his muscles, has he screwed up? "I want you to trust me, I want-"

"I do!" Robby frantically interrupts. "I trust you Sir, I promise I do! I trust you a whole bunch!"

"Easy, easy..." Jim soothes and Robby breaks off, feeling himself trembling as he suddenly becomes aware of the panic coursing through his veins. "It's okay if you don't, it might take a long time to happen but one day, maybe you won't feel so afraid all the time. You don't just have to say what you think I want to hear."

Robby pauses as he lets the Pastor's words sink in, letting himself calm down a little before replying.

"I think I trust you...most of the time," he whispers and, when he risks a glance up, he's surprised to Pastor Jim smiling.

"Well thank you for that, Scrap, it means a lot to me."

"Dean says I shouldn't..." Robby continues, relieved to finally be able to put some of his thoughts in order, to have someone listen and not just yell at him like Dean.

"Well...it might take Dean a little while to trust too," Jim responds and Scrap smiles a fraction, pleased that Pastor Jim hasn't said anything mean about Dean. He hates it when people do that.

"Yeah," he agrees, closing his eyes and enjoying the gentle, easy comfort of Jim's hand on his shoulder. It's weird, to have someone who isn't Dean touching him without hurting him and Robby's not sure he would want any more contact but for now this is nice...this is just right.

"He doesn't know what I know," the young man adds, opening his eyes just in time to see Pastor Jim raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh really? And what's that?"

Robby just sighs, disappointed but, for once, not afraid that he's not going to do what Pastor Jim wants. The man wants him to tell him about his powers but Scrap thinks he's finally getting it – if he doesn't want to, then it's okay, he doesn't have to. Pastor Jim might get sad, or even angry, but he won't yell at him, won't hit him, won't lock him up...well, _probably _won't.

"I can't tell you, I'm not allowed." Robby replies, his body still flinching minutely even as his mind tries to tell him it's okay. "I want to but...I can't. Not yet."

"Well, whenever you feel ready, you know I'm here to listen," the Pastor replies and Robby nods.

"Yeah." He _does _know that Pastor Jim will listen to him and that knowledge is kinda...nice.

* * *

Sam looks up as he heard Pastor Jim's door open, Dean immediately whips round to glare at the intruder, his expression only softening a fraction as he realises that it's Robby.

"Hi," Robby smiles timidly as he shifts nervously from foot to foot in the doorway.

"Woulda been your own fault if you'd just walked straight into a trap," Dean growls in reply and Sam tries to hide his smile. Despite the apparently uncaring tones in Dean's voice, it's clear to see that the older man is relieved. Yet again, Dean's demeanour is tinted with shades of their father.

"I know," Robby shrugs as he walks to join them. "But it wasn't, I'm okay, it's all okay."

"Yeah it's fucking peachy," Dean scowls sarcastically and Sam laughs quietly.

"Are you gonna come inside now?" Robby asks and Sam closes his eyes briefly, praying that Dean will just say yes so they can go into Jim's warm house, Dean and Robby can relax and Sam can talk calmly to Pastor Jim before Dad turns up and starts ranting and raving.

Just say yes, just say yes, just say yes, he pleads silently as he watches his stoic older brother.

"No."

"_Dean_!" Robby whines in response, probably not realising that he just took the words right out of Sam's mouth.

"Dean...maybe we-"

"You guys go in if you want," Dean shrugs, turning his head away and scanning the horizon. "I'm fine out here."

"It's cold out here!" Robby protests, again voicing Sam's thoughts and Sam's beginning to worry that the kid might be a mind-reader as well as a healer.

"Don't be a wuss," Dean rolls his eyes.

"So what are we gonna do, just sit outside the house the rest of our lives?" Robby protests, manoeuvring himself back into Dean's line of vision.

"Rest of your life ain't gonna be very long if you don't stop bugging me," Dean scowls, shoving the blonde away.

"What do you want to do, Dean?" Sam asks gently, trying to sound as calm as possible since his brother is clearly stressed.

"I-I don't know, nothing, anything...I don't wanna go in there. Why can't we just go back to our house?" Dean replies anxiously, Sam can see the outline of his brother's fists in his pockets.

The younger Winchester opens his mouth to reply and then quickly shuts it as Dean's words fully sink in.

...Our house...

It takes an embarrassing amount of self-discipline for Sam not to burst into a jig as he processes those words. _Our _house. Not _John's_ house, or _your_ house but **our **house. Dean might not realise it yet but his thought patterns are clearly shifting, if only a fraction, towards accepting this new, safer life.

"Awesome..." Sam mutters to himself, freezing when he looks up to see Dean and Robby staring at him with respective expression of confusion and worry, Scrap edging cautiously behind Dean.

"I-I mean, totally! We can totally do that! You wanna do that? We can do that..." Sam can hear the words emerging from his lips as a spray of semi-coherent babble but, short of clapping his hands over his mouth, he can't quite seem to figure out how to stop himself.

"Dean..." Robby whispers nervously and Sam cringes with embarrassment. He's even managed to weird out Robby Singer, one of the most socially dysfunctional individuals he's ever met.

"We can go home?" Dean checks and Sam's heart stops doing its somersaults and launches into an all out gymnastics routine – **home**!! Dean said 'home'! Dean called it 'home'! Sam's not sure how much more of this he can take in one day.

Thank God, then, for Scrap replying to Dean, giving Sam precious moments to rearrange the mush that it his brain.

"But your Dad is on his way here, he'll be here in a few minutes."

"Really?" Dean checks, his eyes narrowing and Robby nods enthusiastically.

"Uh-huh?"

"You're sure?" Dean checks, staring his friend dead in the eyes and Robby nods again.

"Yeah, I saw him at the-" Robby's cut off as Dean reaches out a hand and cuffs the younger man round the back of the head and Sam's heart plummets from Cloud 9 back to the pit of his stomach.

"Dean!" he yells reflexively as Robby clutches his head, staggering about melodramatically and emitting some impressively pitiful whimpers.

"Ow Dean!" he pouts, and Sam watches with slight awe. He'd thought that _he _had the puppy-dog eyes down to an art (admittedly an art that never had the slightest effect on Missouri Mosely) but Scrap had turned the pitiful look into a masterpiece.

"Ow Dean, that hurt! That was too hard."

Sam knows, from what Dean's told him of his and Robby's shared upbringing, that the kid is most likely not in the slightest bit of pain. He expects that, like Dean, Robby Singer also has an impressively high pain threshold. Which just makes this whole situation all the more bemusing.

"You're an idiot," Dean hisses as Scrap continues to rub at his head, whimpering quietly to himself, his words punctuated with an occasional sniff.

"I was only tryin' to help..."

"Yeah, so was I," Dean responds, his tone turning from annoyed to exasperated. "We've talked about this!"

Robby just continues to pout, the sulk continuing as he turns pointedly away from Dean and looks expectantly at Sam before abruptly bowing his head. "Can you see a lump Mister Sam, I mean, just Sam? I can feel a lump, it's really sore...I might have a concussion."

"Knock it off, Scrap, you're not hurt," Dean rolls his eyes, thankfully absolving Sam of any involvement as he drags the petulant young man backwards a few feet.

"I _am_!" Robby protests, "That was painful and it still hurts even now..."

Dean sighs, turning his eyes skywards.

"It's for your own good, you know that," he replies and Sam frowns as he tries to understand why on Earth Dean thinks hitting someone round the head would be for their own good.

"But you know I hate being hit on the head," Robby pouts, stabbing at the dirt with the toe of his sneakers. "Remember that time Kubrick hit me with that crucifix and then and then I was sick and then I had a seizure and then I couldn't see for two whole days, I don't **like** it, it's dangerous and it's mean."

And just like that, the dread that Sam thought he'd manage to shake off through this whole incident is back, squeezing his lungs and his heart and his mind until he can only stand there, horrified by the casual retelling of such brutal violence, Dean and Robby's bickering only muffled white noise, overpowered the sound of his thumping heart.

"It's not the same, my hand isn't made of-" Dean breaks off abruptly and the change is enough to snap Sam out of his horrified stupor. The youngest Winchester follows his brother's line of vision and sighs with relief as he recognises his father striding towards the house. John Winchester might not be Sam's favourite person in the world but it's someone else to help deal with...._this_.

The trio are silent as Dad slowly approaches them and Sam tenses reflexively in the awkward silence before a triumphant voice cuts through the quiet, accompanied by a beaming smile.

"See, I _told _you he was coming!"

* * *

**AN: So okay, sorry, I know this chapter must be a bit dissapointing after a long wait but I just needed a bit of filler to set up the next chunk of plot. And maybe some humour after the ansgtdump from the last chapter, I hope it wasn't too up in the next installments - Sam!angst and Dean's Daddy issues!  
**


	44. Chapter 44

**AN: Hi everyone, I'm, really sorry if I didn't reply to your review, I have been having a lot of trouble with this website :/ I'm sorry for that but i hope you enjoy the chapter anyway.**

Chapter Forty Four

Dean barely even registers Robby's chattering as he watches John walk towards them. The man's face is unreadable and Dean forces himself to stand his ground even as Robby takes a few tentative paces backwards. He wonders if Robby's using his ability to see John's aura, is he picking up on something Dean can't see? Or is this just Scrap being his usual timid self?

After all, Dean thinks, Robby has hardly had chance to figure out John Winchester. Dean's had _months _and he still can't decide whether he hates the man or not. It'd be easier, he thinks, if he just hated the man – fear, hatred, resentment, they're all emotions he can handle. He's _used _to hating people, he's hated almost everyone he's ever met. But, as much as he tries to loathe the man and as much as he dwells on what John Winchester has done to him, he can't seem to conjure that oh so familiar rage that he felt for Edwin when he looks at the man.

Dean doesn't like him, sure as hell doesn't _trust_ him but...he doesn't hate him. It's hardly the loving father-son connection that Sam's built up, but for Dean it's kind of a big deal.

"Dad," Sam greets as John reaches the group of them and Dean's surprised to see John reach out and grasp the man's shoulder, his eyes burning with something that Dean can't read. It's not anger though, and, although Dean remains on guard, waiting for any sign that Sam might be in danger, he doesn't intervene.

"Sam," John begins. His tone is calm and, whilst not quite gentle, it's not exactly harsh either. Dean watches through narrowed eyes and waits for the man's next move. "Are you alright?"

So, not angry then. Dean breathes a sigh of relief, relaxing a fraction. He knows it could be a trick of course; John could just be hiding his anger behind a fake semblance of calm, lulling Sam into a false sense of relaxation, but Dean doesn't think the guy is the type and he should know – he fell for that trick _so _many times when he was a boy. Nah, John's temper is explosive and snappy which means the guy probably is genuinely concerned.

Then again, Dean thinks as he stares numbly at the dirt, he got that wrong so many times when he was little. A dumb, trusting, idiot little kid stupid enough to believe that anyone would care about him. Dean scowls, clenching his fists – he's not that little boy any more, he knows better now.

"Yeah," Sam replies with a nod and Dean breathes a sigh of relief as John removes his hand from the younger man's shoulder.

"I went to Security and you weren't there. I heard what happened," John runs a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have left you there."

"No," Sam agrees, his voice tinted with anger. "You shouldn't."

"Hendrickson filled me on in everything," John continues. "I tore him a new one."

Dean smirks at that, enjoying the image.

"Are you alright, Dean?" John asks and Dean freezes as the man turns his attentions on him. It's an effort to relax enough to manage a small, cautious nod but Dean does, knowing that this is probably a trick question but not knowing what else he can do.

Surprisingly though, John just nods his approval. "Good, you did the right thing calling for your brother."

Dean can feel a smile forming on his lips at the praise and he quickly forces it away. Like he cares if John Winchester is happy with him or not.

"Whatever."

"Why are you out here anyway? It's too cold for that," John carries on, looking about his surroundings and Dean's stomach flips, John's going to pissed with him when Sam admits it was _Dean _who made them stay outside.

"Dean, your brother seems to get sick more than enough as it is, try and make sure he stays inside when you get chance," John continues absently, making his way towards Pastor Jim's front door.

"Yes Sir," Dean replies solemnly, making sure to commit the order to memory; that's clearly one of his duties as a big brother and he's already failed it once. It won't happen again, Dean's sure of that.

* * *

"Missouri's on the way."

Sam cringes at Dad's impolite greeting as the man barges into Pastor Jim's house.

"That's nice to hear," Jim smiles calmly from his seat on the couch, raising his eyebrows at John's abrupt entrance before looking to Sam and Dean. "Hello boys."

Sam nods a half-assed greeting, too pissed off for pleasantries. Beside him Dean doesn't even respond, glancing backwards to Robby who's stayed about three feet away from them ever since Dad showed up. Sam can't blame him; Dad's irritated demeanour coupled with the fact that he hasn't even bothered to _acknowledge _Robby let alone offer an apology for leaving them in a dangerous situation, for storming off like that, for all the wrong things he said to Sam...

No, obviously an apology is a bit much too ask for, that would mean Dad admitting he was wrong after all and if that happened Jim would probably leap out of his seat and start an exorcism ; it's not exactly Dad's style after all.

"You alright boys?"

Sam looks up in time to see Jim staring at him and Dean curiously and he nods, hoping his irritation isn't showing on his face.

"We're good."

"Can I get you all something to eat?" Jim asks, rising from the couch in a movement impressively smooth for his age.

Sam hears Dean's stomach rumbling in response but he knows Dean won't be willing to admit he's hungry let alone ask for food.

"Yeah, one each for us please," he gestures to himself and his big brother, smiling encouragingly at Dean's nervous look.

"It's okay," he mouths, hoping Dean will keep up this trust he's been showing lately.

"John?" Jim asks, either oblivious to or just ignoring Sam's quiet reassurances. Sam's grateful; the last thing he wants is for Dad to start harassing Dean over his nerves.

"What do I look like, Murphy? A charity?" John glowers, moving over to a spare seat and sitting himself down. Sam cringes internally at his father's rudeness – thank goodness Pastor Jim is used to it.

"Scrap? You need to eat son," Jim speaks calmly, not fazed by Dad's abruptness, as Robby timidly shakes his head. Sam can't help but wonder why the kid is acting so subdued – either Dean's cuff round the head was harder than it looked or something's got him spooked. Sam has a suspicion that that 'something' might be John Winchester.

"_Robby_..." Jim insists and Sam watches as the kid looks like he's trying his best to disappear.

"M'not hungry..." he whispers, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"You're the one who said we could trust him," Dean glares and then moves closer to his friend, whispering something Sam can't hear. The youngest Winchester figures it must be something to do with him though as Robby glances furtively upwards before reluctantly nodding.

"'Kay."

"Good," Pastor Jim smiles looking visibly relieved before turning his cheerful eyes on John. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?"

John just smirks as he replies, "Would take a better liar than you to make the shit in your cupboard sound tempting, Jim."

Pastor Jim just laughs and makes his way to the kitchen leaving Sam wondering at the shared joke. He's never got the adults' complaints about the food rations they get. He's grown up eating it and it's all been fine to him, he doesn't get how the food from before 'Gate could be any better. Either way, he's looking forward to the meal, even if Dad and apparently Robby aren't.

"Sit down boys," Dad calls from the couch and Sam bristles at the order. Who does Dad think he is giving orders in Jim's house? Dean's already moving to obey, as usual, even though he might be more comfortable standing. Doesn't Dad understand that Dean will just obey on instinct? Dean's hardly going to argue back with what _he _wants to do, Dad should understand that and give him a choice.

"I'd prefer to stand," Sam replies challengingly, meeting his father's eyes with barely a flinch. It's not particularly true; he'd prefer to sit down and take the weight off his feet - but he just needs to show Dad what a dick he's being.

To his surprise and maybe even disappointment, Dad simply sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Whatever, Sammy."

So now Dad's simply dismissing him? Normally he would throw a fit about backchat.

"Dean, you can stand if you want," Sam speaks up again. He knows he's pushing Dad's buttons but, hell, why not while he's got the chance? Maybe he'll actually be able to put his point of view across without Dad telling him to shut up.

"Sam."

Dad's voice again, a tight, controlled warning, too tense to be calm.

"Just saying, you know...Dean should be allowed-"

"For crying out loud!" Dad interrupts with a yell and Sam flinches back instinctively. All of a sudden winding his Dad up doesn't seem so cool after all. Glancing to the side he can see Robby who's also followed John's command to sit down, pressing himself against the wall, his eyes tracking the oldest Winchester's every move.

"Do you what you fucking want, Dean! You can do what the hell you want, alright?! Is that okay with you, Samuel?"

Dean's kneeling on the floor opposite the couch, and although his head is down, Sam can see him mouth the words 'Yes Sir'. There's no flinch, no shaking but Sam can see his brother's hands curled into fists, knows that cold, unrelenting stare is just hiding the true fear his brother is feeling.

And just when Sam was finally getting Dean to think Dad could be trusted...nice one, Dad.

"Don't shout at-" Sam's alarmed to notice a tremor in his voice. Shit he hates this - twenty years and old and still afraid of his father, how pathetic.

"What, Sam? You got me to lose my temper, well done! That's what you wanted isn't it?"

Dad looks furious, Sam thinks as he swallows past the lump forming in his throat. No, not just furious, Sam can deal with that, there's something else. Hurt...Dad actually looks _hurt_. But it's...it's _Dad_, right? Dad doesn't care what anyone says, Dad just gets pissed, he never gets hurt feelings...does he?

"I-"

"I was just inviting you both to sit down so I could talk to my boys. That's all I wanted."

And all of a sudden Sam feels like a dick. He feels like a dick and he doesn't like it one bit.

No...no, he's not a dick...Dad's the one who lost it and the guy's just trying to manipulate him into making him feel like it's _his _fault, just like he always does. Sam was just trying to make sure Dean was feeling okay. Except...he wasn't, was he?

Sam sighs and stars at his feet as he contemplated the past few moments. He'd used Dean as a weapon against Dad, as an excuse to act like a jerk to Dad because...why? Because he was still holding a grudge against him from earlier, because of something that had, for once, nothing to do with Dean. Because, despite how Dean always makes him see differently, he still automatically assumes that Dad is being an ass on purpose.

"Dad..."

"Whatever, Sam. I don't want to hear it, I don't care."

And now Dad's just back to dismissing him again, like he doesn't even care enough to argue with him. And really, that's what pissed him off the first time isn't it? Because have Dad mad and yelling at him is a heck of a lot better than having Dad not even _care_. Because he's still pathetically needy for his father's attention even at twenty years old.

Disgusted with himself, Sam surges out of the cramped room into the adjoining church and stumbles into one of the makeshift pews, too drained and emotional to even _think_.

* * *

"Well that's got to be a record, John," Pastor Jim calls from kitchen and Robby frowns at the lightness in the man's tone. "What was that five, six minutes?"

"It's a fucking soap opera round here," Dean's dad grumbles in response and Robby frowns, wondering what a soap opera is.

"Now that's something I _don't_ miss," Pastor Jim replies as he makes his way back into the living room. "And I wouldn't miss you two being at each other's throats either if that came to an end."

"Take more than the apocalypse to stop Sammy butting heads with me," Mr. Winchester smirks and Pastor Jim just shakes his head gently before placing one of the meals down on the coffee table.

"Would you like to sit at the table, Dean?" he asks softly and Robby watches Dean shrug.

He wants to move, to be close to Dean, to promise him, once again, that Pastor Jim is nice, that he won't hurt them but...John Winchester told them to sit down and Robby's not so sure that _he _won't hurt them. He doesn't _think _so, the man doesn't give off the aura of a cruel man and, when John looks at Dean, Robby's sure that the man loves his son. But Robby knows that that love doesn't apply to him; Mr. Winchester is Dean's father whereas Scrap hadn't even known what a father _was _until had Dean told him.

Dean's silent as he clambers onto the couch, hugging his knees as he stares at the meal in front of him.

Robby smiles as he hears the older man mutter a quiet, reluctant, thanks and Pastor Jim smiles kindly as he returns to the kitchen.

"What you got there, Dean?" John asks and Dean's head shoots up, glaring angrily at his father.

"It's **mine**," he glowers. "He gave this one to _me_, you said you didn't want one!"

Robby cringes at his friend's angry, possessive tone.

"I know, I know..." Mr. Winchester replies, thankfully not sounding angry. "I just wondered what it was."

"How should I know?" Dean replies harshly before softening a little and shrugging again, a tiny smile at the edge of his lips. "It's food, that's all that matters."

"Haha, I guess you're right kiddo," Mr. Winchester actually breaks into a grin and Robby smiles too because Dean's happy, his father's happy and Pastor Jim is happy. A room full of smiling, happy people – Robby can't ever remember such a nice situation.

"Hey, Murphy, my son has helped me see the light!" John calls out as Pastor Jim returns, once again, from the kitchen, an MRE in each hand.

"Oooh, congratulations, Dean, I've been trying for twenty years," Jim grins and Robby smiles because he likes to hear Dean being praised.

"Go on, Jim, open one for your old pal," John grins and the Pastor shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he approaches Robby.

"What is this, feeding time at the zoo?"Pastor Jim softens his tone as he crouches down near Robby. "You okay, Scrap?"

"Yes sir," Robby answers, feeling suddenly nervous now the attention in the room is focussed on him.

"Can you do me a favour, son?" the elder man continues and Scrap nods enthusiastically – eager at the chance to help Pastor Jim, to be useful.

"Yes sir, I mean...yes Pastor Jim."

"Good lad," Pastor Jim places the packets down on the floor and gently ruffles Robby's hair. Robby enjoys the soft, unthreatening contact.

"One these is for you, and one is for Sam. I want you to take Sam's meal through to him, make sure he eats it."

"Okay," Robby nods again, he can do that. He likes spending time with Sam anyway.

"And make sure you eat yours," Jim admonishes softly and Robby stares at the floor, hating that Pastor Jim knows how afraid he is when it comes to food. He's glad, then, that he doesn't have to promise to eat it, as Jim ushers him out of the room and into the church. It's all going well so far, Robby can only hope he doesn't ruin everything now.

"Sam?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he hears Robby's tentative voice calling his name. Just want he needs, some broken, abused guy to make him feel even guiltier for acting like a spoiled brat earlier.

"Mister Sam?"

Sam wipes his eyes and looks up from the pew as he hears Robby's voice coming closer. He doesn't want the guy to know he's been crying – no doubt he'd tell Dean and Dean already thinks he's a pussy.

"What do you want?" Okay, so, that might have been a little bit harsher than he intended but at least he didn't come across as a grown man who'd just spent the last five minutes bawling his eyes out which is far worse than coming across as a bastard.

"I'm sorry..." Robby replies quietly, standing a few paces back from Sam's position. "I know you don't want to see me but Pastor Jim said I had to give you this food and make sure you ate it so..." the guy trails off before placing one of the MREs down gently on the seat with the reverence and caution more appropriate for a precious artefact or an unexploded bomb.

And Sam can't help but smile a fraction, his bad mood lifted a fraction by the blonde man's antics.

"Nah, I'm sorry Scrap, I do want to see you. I'm just-"

"I know," Robby interrupts and Sam frowns a little.

"You do?"

"Yeah," the guy replies again. "It's okay."

Sam just nods, feeling more than a little bemused. "Is Dean okay?" he asks as he reaches for his food.

"He's got food so..." Robby just shrugs and then breaks into a grin. "Yeah."

"Aren't you going to touch yours?" Sam asks, looking at the unopened packet in Robby's hands. The guy's smile fades then and Sam wonders if he's touched some kind of a nerve.

"If I gotta eat mine then you gotta eat yours – fair's fair," Sam smiles, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

The guy nods miserably at that before sitting down on the packed earth of the church floor and peeling back the foil cover.

"You got chicken, that's lucky!" Sam grins as he picks at his own noodles. Jim always insists that he picks their MREs without looking at what's in them but Sam wouldn't be surprised if he'd given Robby the best one out of the selection.

"It is?" Robby checks and chuckles at the seriousness of the guy's tone.

"If you like chicken," he replies with a wink.

"I'm not sure if I do..." Robby responds quietly, stabbing at a piece of meat with the flimsy plastic fork and then tentatively popping into his mouth.

"So?" Sam asks with raised eyebrows, smiling with Robby nods his enthusiastic approval.

"It's nice!" Sam notes, with some sadness, that the kid actually sounds surprised.

"Well, eat up," he encourages, remembering his earlier decision to live up to faith Dean's placed in him to take care of his friend. "You gotta catch up to Dean and all the weight he's put on."

"He looks healthier now," Robby agrees between mouthfuls. "I like that."

"Yeah..." Sam replies softly remembering the conversation from earlier, of how Dean had been hungry for years, of how that bastard in Security had tortured Dean, eating his meals in front of him while Dean starved behind the bars of his cell. "I-I like that too."

"It's real nice of you and Mister Winchester to give him food all the time," Robby replies earnestly and Sam realises again that all the things he takes for granted, even something as apparently obvious as regular meals, can be a huge deal to Dean and Robby.

"He's family," Sam shrugs, forcing himself not to get emotional. "Whatever," he snaps, wiping discreetly at his eyes, "Don't change the subject, eat your food."

"I _am_..."

"You've had about three mouthfuls this whole time," Sam counters and Robby just shrugs.

"M'not hungry."

"You've gotta be hungry," Sam argues. "We haven't had any food since this morning."

Robbys shrugs at that. "That ain't a long time...not for me."

And again, Sam's thoughts wander back to his big brother. Damnit, this whole thing just isn't fair. It isn't fair that Dean and Robby had to grow up starving and fighting for scraps. It isn't fair that, even now, Robby still can't just accept that it's normal to get 2 or 3 meals a day.

"I don't like eating much anyway....I'm not like Dean."

Sam frowns at that, he's pretty sure that if he'd spent years being starved he'd be desperate for any food he could get his hands on.

"Why not?" he asks curiously and then instantly regrets it as Robby pales, pushing his barely eaten meal away. He's turning into Dad just belting out questions without any tact. This is clearly a sensitive issue for Robby and here he is just demanding answers.

"They used to...my food wasn't always just...food," Robby answers quietly, staring down at the food in front of him. "They used to put stuff in it. Drugs. I-I didn't like 'em."

"They used to drug your food?!" Suddenly Sam finds that he's lost his appetite too.

"Not Dean," Robby quickly assures him. "I couldn't taste 'em in the food but...they were there. I just wouldn't know till I started feeling...bad."

"What drugs, Robby?" Sam asks softly. "Why would they do that to you?"

The kid looks away then, his cloudy grey eyes shimmering with tears.

"Dean says I can't tell anyone."

"Dean said you can trust me though, remember?" Sam replies feeling a little guilty for this potential abuse of Dean's trust.

"Yeah..." Robby falters, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "I think...you might understand more than he thinks you would."

Sam's not one hundred percent sure what that means but he pretends that he does, schooling his solemn features into a cheeky grin and shrugging casually.

"Try me."


	45. Chapter 45

**AN: Potentially heavy chapter here folks. Fair bit of Robby abuse. **

Chapter Forty Five

Sam fights to stay patient as Robby fidgets on the church floor, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the crumpled old baseball cap that's causing Dad so much grief. Sam's impressed he managed to fit the thing into his pocket at all; then again, military cargo trousers do have a **lot **of pockets. Being at an ex-army base, it's pretty common to see people walking around in military issue clothing and the grey-arctic camos sure make Robby look less like a street-urchin than the tattered jeans and ripped shirt had done. Jim's even kitted him out with a pair of standard issue boots – expensive. Aside from the old baseball cap, and nervous demeanour, Robby Singer looks every bit the able young soldier.

In fact, maybe not; not a young soldier – more like a war-weary veteran, tired of fighting.

What did they put you both through? Sam wonders, his heart aching.

"Dean's gonna be mad..." Robby warns seriously, breaking Sam out of his observations and the younger Winchester just smiles.

"You let me worry about Dean. Just, tell me what you can. You can heal people, right? Can you do something else too? Is that it? Can you see the future like me? " If Robby is anything like Dean then he'll need some questions to answer to prompt him into talking and Sam's providing them in spades. If only he could kid himself into believing he's doing it with Robby's best interests in mind and not just letting his mouth run ahead of his brain.

"Erm, yes, yes, yes, no..." Scrap replies, ticking the questions off on his fingers and Sam chuckles.

"Dude, even _I _can't keep track of me. You're gonna have to explain it to me."

"It's kinda...I have two powers. I can heal and I can...see," Robby explains, his index finger tapping vacantly at his temple. Sam can't help but deflate a little.

"You can _see_?" he echoes sarcastically. "Wow, ain't that just amazing?"

"No...no not like that," Robby shakes his head in frustration and Sam immediately feels guilty for his scorn. He's taking out his impatience on Robby who's doing his best, he knows better than this.

"I ain't...I can't talk real good, I-I don't know all the words...I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, Robby. I just...I'm a little scared...just explain it to me, please."

"Everyone can see," Robby pouts, folding his arms. "But I..._we_ can see more than they do. You can see the future, that psychic lady can see the past and I can see the present."

Sam bites off the deadpan remark brewing in his throat as he hears Robby explaining his 'power'.

"The present?"

Robby nods. "Like...I...I can see 'the truth of the present moment'," he explains, his voice a rote monotone, and Sam wonders who gave him that definition.

"What does that mean?"

"It's complicated..." Robby sighs, fiddling with the brim of his hat. "Like...Dean doesn't trust Pastor Jim because...just because. But I...I can see his aura when I look at him, I can see the _truth_ about him. That's how I know we can trust him, and you and...maybe Mr. Winchester."

"Okay..." Sam frowns already feeling a little lost.

"And I can s - Mr. Edwin said I should be able to find anyone, anywhere on the planet. See where they are and what they're doing."

"_Should?" _Sam questions and Robby looks away, nervous.

"I'm not mad or anything," Sam assures the nervous young man. "I just don't know much about this stuff, it's all new to me."

Scrap nods a little before speaking again. "I was never powerful enough to do that. I-I can only see a little way outside the camp boundaries. I-I gotta have met someone to find them too, I can't just find some stranger. He-he didn't like that. If I know 'em, I can search for kinda a long way but if not...I don't see so far."

Sam closes his eyes momentarily, taking a few deep breaths as he steels himself for another tale of Jeremy Edwin's cruelty.

"But I got two powers, that's kinda rare," Robby smiles weakly, that inspiring optimism still shining through despite the horrors that must be running through the kid's head.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, trying his own weak smile.

"Only Ava got more powers than me," Robby puffs out his chest proudly. "And Mister Edwin didn't like her so much. He said I was his favourite. Said I was special. He was always kinda mad when Mister Kubrick used to...you know...drown me and...stuff..."

"Right..." Sam swallows a lump rising in his throat.

"I can see patterns, I can see auras, intention, desire, the truth...that's how I think I know I can trust you, Sam."

"Right...is that how you could tell me and Dean were related?"

"Yeah," Robby nods. "Kinda, I knew there was some link but I-I didn't know exactly...I couldn't interpret it..."

Sam nods slowly before just shaking his head and shrugging. "I don't get it. This is just....kinda crazy. People with super powers...**me **with superpowers. _Why_...how?"

Sam sighs, rubbing his eyes and he almost laughs as he hears Robby's tentative voice. "Please keep eating, Sam, Pastor Jim said I gotta make sure you eat it."

"Sure," Sam sighs, on the boundary of either tears or laughter as he reaches for his dessert, some kind of rock hard chocolate. MREs aren't meant to be refrigerated and most have a shelf life of only 3 years. Luckily the Texas base, being the newest base to built before 'Gate, was also on the receiving end of new, trial ration packs. Sam wonders, sadly, as he nibbles on the chocolate, how the other hunters camps survive.

Then again, he tries to console himself, they have other ways of getting food too; maybe he can show Robby one day, try and get the kid out of his food phobia. And Dean too, his brother needs to see some of the normal world but Sam really doesn't have the mental energy to think about that right now. Doesn't even know how he'll get through the rest of this exhausting conversation.

"It's kinda cool, Sam," Robby shrugs as he opens his own dessert, eyeing the cookie suspiciously. "You got powers, don't you think that's cool?"

"No," Sam answers flatly. "I don't think watching horrible things happen while my head implodes is 'cool' at all."

"But you can help your family more if you can see the future," Robby counters, still holding his cookie out at arm's length.

"Eat the biscuit Robby," Sam orders vacantly as he contemplates the man's words. He hasn't really considered any long term implications of his 'visions' but, now he thinks about it, it could be useful, but....

"They're not really much use," he sighs. "I mean, what I see doesn't make sense and...they just happen randomly. It's not like I can just look in the future whenever I want."

"Not _yet_," Robby interjects and Sam can only shake his head at the kid's attempts to stay optimistic despite the nightmares that must be circling in his head.

"We didn't exactly study precognition in school," Sam replies, finally taking a bit of his chocolate and enjoying the sweet taste.

"School?" Robby echoes through a mouthful of cookie, the word clearly unfamiliar to him and Sam sighs softly. Of course Robby doesn't know what a school is, neither will Dean...

God dammit.

* * *

Robby sighs silently as he stares down at the...thing, whatever it is he's meant to be eating. It tastes nice, sure – it tastes _really _nice but...

If only there was some way to be **sure**.

He can't help shuddering as he remembers the horrible, frightening sensations that would follow about one meal a month. The pins and needles that would start right at the end of his fingertips and toes and then prickle inside his head. And then the tickles would turn to trembles as his body shook and his ears popped, Dean's voice so far away as Robby sat on his hands to try and hide the shaking, to pretend he was okay when he was so, so scared.

And then the visions would arrive - frightening, dizzying explosions of images in his mind as his sightless eyes rolled back to his skull and he was lost in a world where he couldn't tell what was real or where he was or what was happening. But through it all, every time, there was one man he'd see over and over again and he'd feel happy and safe when he saw him, despite all the pain.

Then he'd come round, slow and groggy and cold from the water Edwin would throw all over him to wake him and the worst of it would start; the interrogation. Weary and sick Robby would do his best to answer the questions Edwin threw at him; what had he seen? Who had he seen? Ask what was happening to people and places Scrap had never even heard of. And Robby would stammer his answers, holding his aching head in his hands and knowing that, any minute, Mister Edwin would lose patience and lash out; throwing Robby's body across the room until he got too grown up for that and the man would just kick him around the office instead.

"Fucking useless," the man would scream and Robby knew, even now, that he was right. If he was more powerful he could see more, see further...see the whole world maybe. At the very least he'd be able to answer Mister Edwin's questions and at best he'd be able to look after Dean better.

"Not so powerless when you're healing that fucking bait downstairs are you?" Edwin would yell and Robby would just cower trying to nod and shake his aching head at the same time, terrified and desperate to give the right answer, to do _anything _to make this pain stop, to be a good boy.

Eventually Edwin would stop beating him as his anger faded away and he'd crouch down, pulling Robby's head up by his hair and sighing. Robby would try and keep his eyes on the floor, even as he felt the tears trickle down his cheeks. He knew Dean wouldn't cry, Dean would be strong and brave and would probably be able to read the visions properly.

"You're bleeding," Edwin would comment, or something like that, shaking his head as though it were Robby's fault he was a bloody, broken mess.

"You know I hate to do this to you, Scrap."

Robby would do his best to nod and mumble his apologies.

"I hate it when you make me do this," Edwin would sigh, dragging Robby into his lap, his hand running through Scrap's dirty blonde hair.

"M'sorry," Scrap would mumble, hating Edwin's touch but so desperate for some kindness, _any_ kindness that he couldn't help but enjoy it. "I'm trying."

"You need to focus, Scrap," Edwin would order, as though he knew anything about having a vision. "That thing downstairs, he's just a tool, just bait, we don't expect anything from him."

Robby would sigh, wishing he was with Dean, hoping Dean wouldn't need healing when he got downstairs.

"The others, they're just weapons. But _you _Scrap, you're special, you're my eyes and ears, you're my _favourite_, you know that don't you?"

"Yes Sir," Robby would nod in Edwin's lap; unworthy and undeserving of such kind words. Ashamed and exhausted that he'd let his master down again, that he was too weak and stupid to do his duty.

"You're better than the others, you have _two _powers, **two**..."

And Scrap would nod, too exhausted to feel proud.

"You're smarter than the others. You're obedient, you're a _good_ boy."

Robby would shudder at those words; 'good boy'...always after he'd done something terrible, or frightening or humiliating. 'Good boy', he wasn't a good boy, he was a failure.

"You want to make me happy don't you?" Edwin would ask and Robby would nod because he did, really he did. If he could do that then maybe Edwin wouldn't hurt him, maybe Dean wouldn't be hurt either.

"Yes Sir."

"Then you need to do better next time. I don't want to have to do this again."

And Scrap would never listen to the rest, too terrified by the thought of a 'next time' to hear anything else.

"I-I learned to...how to get better," Robby finally speaks up, his voice dull in an attempt to hide how scared he feels. "You could too, Sir."

"Sir?" Sam echoes, raising his eyebrows but Robby just nods absently, his mind still lost in a foggy haze of frightened memories. "That's not a good sign, Scrap, what are you remembering?"

"Lessons..." Robby mumbles before shaking his head, trying to clear out the memories. "I-I'm sorry, I just, I mean...you could learn too and then...and then you could see the future when you wanted to and...and see it better."

Robby trails off as he remembers Edwin's very first 'lessons'. How he'd sit him in the office of in one of the big hollowed out rooms in the labyrinth underneath, chalk a load of weird symbols around him and force him to look outside himself, to see what was happening. And Robby would try, even at four years old he'd squeeze his eyes shut and draw on every ounce of his miniscule, undeveloped powers. But all he could ever see was Dean in the cell down the hall or Mister Kubrick, praying or reading his Bible and of course;

"That's no fucking use to me is it?" Edwin would shout, slapping Robby across his face, then as he got a little older, a backhand to the cheek, a punch to his jaw...nose...

Robby had tried harder but he was so afraid and so desperate to see Dean that all he could see with his powers was his friend and nothing else. And, when he was six years old, Edwin had brought Dean into the room too.

"You want to watch him, huh?!" he'd screamed as he laid into Robby's only friend, kicks and punches falling all over Dean's body. And Robby had screamed a thousand apologies, trying so, **so **hard to see something useful so Edwin would stop the horrible beating. He concentrated until his nose was bleeding and his ear was trickling blood and he still he couldn't see anything, clutching at his head as the pain doubled him over.

"You wanna see him? See this, punk!" Edwin screamed over the sound of Dean's cries and the thud of his feet and fists laying into Robby's only friend. Eventually the beating stopped as Edwin kicked Dean away and Robby had scrambled forward, wrapping his arms around his friend and sobbing his four year old heart out.

Clutching Dean's limp body close, Robby had hunched over the older boy, stifling his sobs in his the old, dirty shirt that hung loose on Dean's thin body. He hadn't even heard Edwin walking towards him, flinching with surprise and fear as he felt a fist curling in his hair and Edwin looking into his eyes.

"What did you do? How did you do that?"

And all Robby could do was whimper his frightened, honest reply; "I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry...sorry, sorry, sorry..."

* * *

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Sam frowns as he watches Robby mouth a litany of apologies, his whole frame shaking as his mind drifts in whatever god awful memory he's thinking about.

"Scrap," Sam calls the kid's name and, when that doesn't work, slips out from the rickety pew and crouches down beside the frightened young man.

"It's okay, you're alright, look at me now," he coaxes, proud of how gentle and steady his voice sounds when inside he's freaking out. He's kind of getting used to handling Dean, knows how his brother will react, can recognise when he's afraid but Robby is new to him, seeming so young and vulnerable without Dean's angry, defensive streak.

This is probably what Dean _wants _todo, Sam thinks sadly as he watches Robby hunched into ball, hands over his head, not even acknowledging the tears trickling down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Mister Sam," Robby whimpers, his voice muffled in the folds of his clothes.

"You're scared..." Sam soothes. "You don't have to be sorry for being scared."

"I didn't want to...I thought I could say it all and not remember but...I just...I remembered and I'm scared and I didn't want to be annoying but I can't help it."

"You're -"

"I'm a fucking brat, I _know_," Scrap interrupts and Sam reels backwards, he's not used to hearing profanity from Robby and he knows that's not a phrase that the kid's thought up himself. No doubt something Edwin and his fucking cronies put in the guy's head.

"I just wanted to talk 'cos...'cos Dean says you always listen and I ain't never had no one listen to me proper before, 'cept for Dean and Pastor Jim, an' I...I wanted you to think good things about me."

"I-"

"I know, it was dumb, _I'm _dumb, I get it now, I just wanted to try but I won't never bother you no more, I don't want you to hate me."

Sam just shakes his head, listening with sadness at the childish overtones to Robby's speech; noticing with an almost clinical detachment how limited Robby's vocabulary is compared to Dean. At least Dean had four years of healthy, normal development, he thinks to himself and then curses internally as he dwells on how frightened and lonely his big brother must have been to have had his happy, family life ripped away from him. How the bad times must have been so much worse for Dean who could actually remember, at least for a few years probably, what it was like to be happy and loved. What consolation was a well developed vocabulary when you were used as bait for hunting demons? Sam seethes with anger as he remembers his brother's flat, painful confession that he didn't even know how to tell the time.

"I don't hate you. You're not bothering me. You're not dumb. I _do _think good things about you." Sam responds to Robby's concerns one by one, softly placing his hand on Robby's shoulder and smiling tentatively when the blonde tilts his head, peering out of his self-made cocoon with one eye.

"...Really?" he checks, sounding disbelieving, giving an almost childish sniffle.

"Yes," Sam replies with perfect honesty.

"I-I don't get why," Robby murmurs. "You like Dean because he's your family but I...I don't got no family. No one's gotta like me."

Sam shakes his head sadly as he listens to Robby's confused ideas of friendship and family.

"You're a friend of Dean's and that means you're a friend of his family, you understand?" Sam explains as simply as he can and sighs as Robby gives one of Dean's one-shouldered shrugs.

"Your Dad shot Mister Walker, you shot Mister Kubrick...to save Dean," the kid ponders quietly and Sam nods his slightly bewildered agreement.

"I feel better 'cos of that," Robby unfurls a little from his ball as he speaks, resting his chin on his forearms as he stares over at Sam.

"Yeah?" Sam comments softly, shifting position until he's only half a foot away from the blonde and then frowning as Robby closes up the rest of the distance.

"Yeah," he confirms and Sam frowns gently as the kid gives an almost apologetic glance before leaning into Sam's body. And then he can't help but smile, draping his arm round Robby's shoulders and sighing softly. It's the kind of comfort he longs to give Dean but he remembers he promised to be a brother to Robby too and Robby, unlike Dean, actually seems to welcome the physical contact.

"You can protect Dean," Robby explains. "I always wanted to. I-I tried, I always tried. I did stuff...bad stuff...so that Dean would be safe but I...sometimes I couldn't save him and he got hurt and I...I couldn't help and I hate myself cos I couldn't help b-but **you**, you and your Dad, you're strong and you can protect him better'n me."

And Sam's suddenly struck with a sense of admiration for the young man nestled into his side. He's always assumed that it was Dean who had been the protector, Dean who'd been the tough one, the smart one, been a big brother even when he couldn't remember his family. But there's no way he could have lived for twenty years in the place without some help...not when Edwin treated him like a disposable piece of garbage.

"You did a good job, Robby," Sam replies softly. "You did your best."

"Wasn't good enough," Robby responds quietly. "But you're here now so it don't matter."

"Hm," Sam practically hums his response, enjoying the soft, gentle flow of the conversation, despite the almost heartbreaking content. He can't blame Dean for being angry, it's probably even healthy, but this is how he imagined brotherhood would be. Gentle and trusting and playful, like the bond he sees between his friends are their siblings.

And then he feels fucking disgusted with himself. What right does he have to wish for this pathetic fairytale life when Dean had twenty years of fucking torture? What right does he have to wish for anything when Dean had fucking **nothing**, not even enough to **eat**!

"You're angry..." Robby murmurs, pulling away and Sam rolls his eyes – it's like sitting with a mind-reader.

"Not at you," Sam assures the frightened young man...just at myself.

But something about Robby's observation has him curious. If he could have that kind of ability, if he really could see the future when he wanted then Dad would be as impressed with him as Sam is with Robby and then...then he'd finally be useful to his father. Then Dad would finally be proud of him and boy, that sure would be something.

So it's with that in mind that Sam rises to his feet, pulling Robby up with him and looking into the kid's grey eyes with a firm resolve.

"Come on, Scrap - lunch break's over."


	46. Chapter 46

**Hello everyone, sorry for the delay - those of you who also have to suffer the pain of January exams will understand I'm sure. I hope you can remember this fic lol and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! **

Chapter Forty Six

"Welcome back boys," Pastor Jim greets warmly as he watches Sam re-enter the room, followed by a worryingly pale looking Robby.

"Thanks for the meal," Sam replies and Jim knows better than to hold his breath waiting for the apology that should follow.

He also knows better than to hold his breath waiting for John Winchester to ask for one. No, as usual, John and Sam will carry on as though the whole thing didn't happen and the anger will just be pushed aside for a few days or hours until all the unresolved issues come flying back to the surface in another argument. Jim just hopes that Dean won't get caught in the middle of the next one, the young man has barely said a word, just wolfing down his food as though it was at risk of disappearing and then sitting silently hunched on the sofa, looking tense and pale as John told his extraordinary story.

Little Sammy seeing the future? Jim hadn't known what to say when John had told him and he still doesn't know what to say now. He's always suspected Sammy might have some kind of psychic ability and the incident with the seeking mist had just confirmed his suspicions but this...precognition is beyond even Missouri's ability.

"We were just discussing your recent...developments," Jim explains when it's clear John isn't even going to greet his youngest son.

"So were we," Sam replies with a wry smile and Jim watches Dean's eyes narrow at that. Robby ducks his head sheepishly and Jim frowns as he tries to interpret the silent communication between the two of them.

"Right well, we'll all have a lot to tell Missouri when she arrives then." Jim has no doubt that the cheerfulness in his voice sounds as forced as it feels.

"Look, you'll have to forgive me if I don't want to stick around to listen to it all for a third time," John announces as he rises up from the couch. "I'm heading home, we can meet in the morning, take it from there."

Jim raises his eyebrows as John details his plans to leave. It's unusual for the eldest Winchester to miss an opportunity give his opinion and advice, especially when it involves Sam. This is John Winchester sticking his head in the sand and hoping everything goes back to normal, Jim's seen it before and he knows it won't take long for the man to snap out of it.

"Okay," he shrugs as John shrugs his leather jacket back on. "See you in-"

Jim jumps as Dean suddenly scrambles of the couch, standing up with rapid reflexes.

"I-I want to come."

"Dean?" John raises his eyebrows at Dean's request.

"I don't want to be here...can I go home too?"

Jim tries to hide his smile as he listens to Dean speaking. He's not happy that the man doesn't feel safe in his house but the fact that Dean thinks of John's house as home, that he feels safe enough to ask to go to it...it's progress. His smile slips however when Dean glowers at Robby who looks too nervous even to speak.

"Sure," John smiles, apparently not noticing the exchange of glances between his eldest son and Robby. "Come on, let's get home. Don't stay too late, Sammy."

"D-Dean..." Robby finally speaks up as John and Dean make their way to the doorway. "Dean..wait...I-I'm sorry, I just-"

"I'm going home, Scrap," Dean replies coldly. "We don't live together any more, you have to stay here. Go talk to Sam some more if you like, I don't give a shit."

"Dean?" Sam sounds as confused as Jim feels and the pastor desperately hopes this is some big misunderstanding on Dean's part.

"Don't expect me to help when they come knocking for you both, it's your own fault," Dean scowls at his friend and brother before leaving the house. John gives a shrug before following his eldest son and Jim's alarmed to see, when he looks back to his blonde charge, the kid is on the verge of tears. So, no answers out of him then, Murphy decides with a sigh before turning to his last option, Sam and fixing the boy with a weary, bewildered stare.

"Just what on Earth was all that about?"

* * *

John takes a deep breath of the afternoon air as he leaves Murphy's house. Hell...only afternoon, he feels like he's lived for week in this day and it's not even half over.

Beside him he hears Dean give a quiet sigh and he knows he's not the only one who's worn out by the day's events. Still, if he can spend some time alone with his boy and _not _fuck everything up then the day won't be a total loss.

Well, if he's going to do that then he needs to stop making the same mistakes that he does with Sammy and that means...apologising. John Winchester doesn't really _do _apologising, obviously he'll say it in the middle of a conversation if it's going to turn things in his favour but...an all out from the heart apology is a pretty alien concept to him. But still, for Dean, he'll make the effort. For Dean to whom he owns a thousand apologies, for Dean who will probably never find it in his heart to forgive the father who abandoned him, for Dean who's.

Well, John shrugs, its' worth a try.

"Dean I-I'm sorry."

And hell if _that_ wasn't ten times easier than he'd been expecting. Maybe he _could _manage to do this with Sammy, even if the kid _would _rub it in his face.

That's after he picks himself up off the floor, John chuckles to himself, imagining his youngest son's astounded face.

"Huh?" Dean glances up at John, looking pale against the dark navy of one of Sam's hoodies; University of Stanford, the garment proclaims and it breaks John's heart to know that Dean can't even read those words, that Sammy will never get the chance to go to a university, that those old prestigious buildings are now just ruins, haunted by demons who make a mockery of hundreds of years of academic progress.

"We need to talk," John explains. "Can we do that?"

Dean shrugs, glancing away from his father as he speaks, "Whatever."

"Only if you want to," John assures his son, not wanting to push Dean after everything he's been through. "But I think it would be good if we did."

"Don't get your hopes up," Dean mutters. "I'm not very good at talking."

"Well, neither am I," John replies with a grim smile. "So let's just do the best we can, huh?"

Dean shrugs again but this time it's accompanied by a half-hearted nod and John takes that as his cue to start asking questions. But hell if that ain't easier said than done.

The eldest Winchester clears his throat to stall for time as he tries to think of how best to phrase all the delicate questions in his mind before rolling his eyes and giving up.

Fuck it.

"Did you really think I was dead?"

Dean freezes momentarily at that, tensing for only the briefest of moments before relaxing and shaking his head.

"I don't know...I wanted to so...I guess I did."

John sighs at that, and then frowns as Dean glowers at him. "Don't fucking judge me, you bastard!"

Oh shit. "I-I'm not, Dean, I'm judging myself, I..." John trails off, running a hand through his hair. He's already fallen out with Sammy today, he _can't _fall out with Dean too.

"I don't even know," Dean replies wearily, running a hand through his hair. "It's all....everything's all mixed up, I don't remember."

"What's mixed up, Dean?" John asks, trying to imagine Sam's quiet tone of voice. He doesn't like to talk to Dean like he's some scared little animal, doesn't want to patronise his boy when he knows how tough the young man is. But...it seems to work when Sam does it and he hasn't got much to lose here by trying.

John watches Dean as he attempts to form his next sentence, licking his lips nervously before turning his head to stare into John's eyes. "You walked away from me."

John gasps quietly at the dull accusation, almost wincing at Dean's quiet resentment. "I-I...no, Dean...no..." he can't even form the words properly, doesn't even know how to explain how wrong Dean is beyond the basic words of denial.

"I remember that clearest of all," Dean continues, looking away now as they make slow progress towards the camp.

It's not even the words tearing John apart, he'd known that Edwin was going to have filled Dean's head with shit and lies and done his damned best to break the kid, but he'd thought that once Dean learned he truth then...then it would all be alright. But Dean had _lived _with these beliefs for twenty years, had spent every year in that place believing that his father had just left him there. How the hell was he supposed to change two decades of belief in one conversation? How the hell would anything 'be alright'?

"It's not true, Dean," John replies weakly, hurriedly continuing before Dean gets the wrong impression about his words. "I know you remember it but...it's a not real memory, it's something Edwin put in your head, he persuaded you it's real but it's **not **Dean, I promise you, I-"

John breaks off, amazed at his own desperation. He's spent so many years acting so cold and unbreakable that to take off the mask is as frightening as it is invigorating. Boy...if Sammy could see him now.

"I _remember_ it..." Dean repeats quietly, softly...uncertain. "You...you shoved me at him and walked away from me. Edwin hit me when I tried to follow you...I-I _wanted _to follow you."

John's shaking his head throughout Dean's confused recollections, wishing there was some way he could prove that it didn't happen that way.

"You sold me to him...he said I was bad, you just wanted to be with Sammy, not me."

"God Dean..." John rubs the nagging ache in his forehead, the sudden onslaught of a headache a welcome distraction from the pain in his chest. "None of that's true, I promise you."

"I didn't believe him at first," Dean mumbles; John's not sure if the kid is even hearing him. "But you didn't come for me...you said..."

"Dean! Dean?! Dean, I'm going to find you...." John finishes Dean's sentence, echoing his broken promise from twenty years ago with the barest fraction of the passion from that night.

"Yeah!" Dean looks up again, startled and with a hint of a smile on his lips. "It _was _you!"

John realises he must have just proved something to Dean without even trying to and he smiles a fraction too, hardly daring to raise his hopes.

"I remember that so clearly too..." Dean frowns and John's heart breaks a little at the confusion in his son's tone. Damn Jeremy Edwin and his fucking mind games, mental torture on a four year old boy, on **his **four year old boy.

"They can't both be true," Dean muses. "Why would you say that and then..."

"What do you _feel _is the truth?" John asks, gambling that somehow, somewhere, a little bit of four year old Dean's love for his Daddy is still there. That somehow, adult Dean can feel it.

"I don't know anymore..." Dean sighs wearily before turning his attention back to his feet. "It was easier when I hated you."

John chuckles a little with bitter humour. "You can still hate me now if you want," he offers, his guilty conscience almost willing it on himself - he deserves every last bit of Dean's hate and loathing.

"I can?" Dean echoes, sounding surprised. "But Sam says I should...that you..."

Dean's struggling for words, the kid wasn't lying when he said he wasn't good at talking – too many years being told to..._forced _to shut up probably, so John steps in.

"No-one would blame you for hating me Dean. Everyone would completely understand."

Dean raises his eyebrows at that, before biting down on his lip and furrowing his brow, looking at John as if begging him to help him understand. "It's okay if I hate you..." he repeats and John nods his miserable agreement. "But then...why is it that I don't?"

"You...don't?" John echoes dumbly, almost stupefied and he almost smiles when Dean shrugs.

"I don't think so..." Dean replies quietly before kicking angrily at the dirt. "I don't fucking know, do I? I don't know how to do any of this shit."

John shakes his head and smiles wryly. "Neither do I, kid."

Dean smiles a fraction at that, looking up at John out the corner of his eyes, keeping his head bowed almost shyly.

"If you didn't sell me...how did I get there? Why was I there?" Dean asks, and John sighs as he started to walk forward again. He's relived that night thousands of times, replayed his failure over and over and over and...what if he had just searched for longer? What if he had been quicker getting Sammy out of the house? What if he'd spent less time staring up at Mary? What if?

"I...I couldn't find you," John finally manages to choke out, pushing the awful memories. "The house was on fire and I...I had to get Sammy from his crib and Mary...she was burning, Dean and...I thought you were behind me, I was _sure _you were behind me but when I turned around you weren't there. I wanted to find you, I was yelling that I'd find you but I...I didn't find you. I didn't find you..."

John takes a shuddering breath in, rubbing at his face with trembling hands. He's aware of Dean, stood a few feet away, staring back at him curiously like he's not sure what to make of the shaking, wreck of a man filling in the blanks in his memory.

There's a pause, and Dean doesn't stop staring through the silence, not even when he finally speaks. "I've always been scared of fire."

The admission is whispered, almost blown away on the wind before it reaches John's ears.

"I never knew why though," Dean continues and John's desperately trying to form some words of comfort. Oddly, Dean doesn't seem upset or even angry and, as John closes the distance between them, the young man doesn't back away.

"If you sold me, I...I wouldn't have...I would remember getting out of the fire."

John nods as Dean explains something else he hadn't even thought of. Maybe the truth alone is enough to convince Dean after all, maybe his son _will _somehow accept him as a father one day. Maybe things are looking up.

John ventures a tentative smile which is wiped off his face as Dean finds the courage to once again look into his eyes and whispers his next question.

"Why didn't you find me?"

John looks away at that, grimacing as the words hit him like a physical blow. "I-I tried," he chokes out. "I looked everywhere, for years but...it got so dangerous and everyone said you were dead I...I had to stop I...I couldn't find you. You have to understand Dean I-"

"But I was **here**!" Dean interrupts, his voice almost a yell, tinged with a thickness that suggests he's fighting back tears. "I was _right_ _here_ and you were here too...They used to send me out of the gate all the time. How could you not see? How come no one...no one helped me? If you were looking for me then..."

"I don't know..." John shakes his head, the anguish in his tone making the words heavy and hard to pronounce. "I...I've asked myself that, Dean, I-I just, I don't know."

Dean shakes his head, turning away and John knows, with a father's intuition, that his son is crying. Or at least trying very hard not to, which just about amounts to the same thing.

"Dean listen..." John steps towards his son hand outstretched before thinking better and letting his arm drop to the side. "Listen I'm sorry I couldn't...I didn't find you but just listen to me..."

John doesn't know why he keeps telling Dean to listen when the boy is silent but he's stumbling over his words in attempt to get them out before Dean gives up on him and making very little sense as a result.

"Edwin knew me, he knew you were my son and he knew I had people looking for you, he-"

"Looking for me?" Dean questioned, finally turning around, and the weary misery in his son's eyes takes John's breath away for a moment. The hunter nods his affirmation as he gets his emotions under control enough to speak.

"There was a reward for anyone who brought you to me," John feels almost embarrassed as he admits it. Or rather, feels like he _should _be embarrassed that he couldn't just find his son alone, that he had to recruit the help of anyone and everyone possible. But what the hell is pride when your son is lost in a world gone to hell? John knows he did everything he could to find his son...he _did_...didn't he?

"Reward?" Dean prompts, "Like what? Food? Blankets?"

John grits his teeth as Dean reveals what obviously constitute 'rewards' to him.

"More than that," John explains. "A lot more."

Dean's looking at him in that way again; a strange mixture of suspicion, gratitude and disbelief.

"For me?" the kid checks, one hand pressed loosely against his chest before trailing back down to his side.

John nods, a soft smile on his face, and his heart skips a beat when Dean almost reciprocates. Almost.

"He _knew _this," John continues, seizing his moment while he has Dean's attention. "Edwin _knew_, _everyone _knew. He must have done something, a glamour or...or something..." John feels like he's clutching at straws but there must be some explanation; he thinks back to the markings on Robby Singer's face and wonders.

"We'll figure it out," John tells his son as he begins to walk forward, reassuring himself more than anything.

Dean shrugs as he falls in step. "It doesn't matter."

John doesn't want to straightforwardly disagree with Dean, not when everything's gone so well so far. But it _does_ matter, it matters to him. He has to know that this wasn't his fault, that he really couldn't have done any more to find his son.

"Edwin's dead, I'm out, it won't change anything," Dean continues and John just takes a second to enjoy the sound of Dean's voice. It's still something of a novelty to hear the kid talking more than one or two words at a time.

"There are other people down there," John counters, if we can find out how Edwin was hiding people-"

"We don't need to, Robby can see them, he can see everything," Dean replies before looking a little panicked at his boldness and adding "Sir."

"You don't have to call me Sir," John reassures the boy and he frowns as Dean looks oddly shy, looking down at the floor.

"What...what _should_ I call you?" Dean asks, the sentencing ending so abruptly that John can tell Dean's bitten off his instinctive moniker.

John remembers last time he told Dean not to call him sir and cringes internally, he hadn't even given the kid an alternative, and, in his drunken state, hadn't even dwelled on the fact that Dean's manners had been beaten into him since her was for years old. This time, he's calmer and wiser and Dean actually feels confident enough to ask, it's a big change for both of them – John's not going to waste. And, oh boy, if he thought the apology was going to be tough then this is something a thousand times worse. John Winchester takes a deep breath and steels himself;

"You can call me Dad if you like."

The silence following the statement is palpable and John cringes, he feels like he's sixteen again and just on the verge of rejection from the prettiest girl in school for a prom date.

"Or John, you know, .John's fine...lots of people call me John. I mean I like John just fi-"

"Dad."

The one word from his eldest son freezes John's breath in his chest and he strains to hear the echo of the word. Dean called him Dad...not Sir or you old git or a bastard but _Dad_.

Dean breaks the silence with almost-joke; "That's gonna take some getting used to."

And John can't help but laugh at that, looking at his son through, tearful, smiling eyes. "You got that right, kid."

The weary hunter takes a breath, shaking his head in amusement and happiness and relief and a thousand other emotions. "You sure as hell got that right."

* * *

**OK I hope you liked that. THis chapter was quite difficult for a few reasons. First off, I am mega rusty. Secondly, it's hard to write John being anything other than gruff or angry and I'm a little worried I took him and Dean a little out of character. Finally, the 'f' key on my keyboard is damaged and I know have to hit it really hard to get the letter F. There are soooo many words with F in that still make words if you take the F out. F'ire', F'ace', F'at', F'all', F'it', F'an', F'art', F'or'.... Seriously. I've tried to catch them but this chapter is probably typo city! I hoped you liked it though! **


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter Forty Seven**

Robby's gaze darts to the doorway as he hears he hears the door creak open. It's not Dean coming back, he can sense that immediately. John and Dean are away somewhere and the only other people Robby knows outside of home are sat in the room with him, he can't help but be afraid. He wants to stand up, the fear and overwhelming sense of danger are screaming at him to get ready to run, but Pastor Jim told him to sit down and he doesn't want to disobey.

As soon as the stranger steps through the door though, he's on his feet, staring through narrowed eyes at the woman. She's small, dark skinned, wrapped up in more layers of clothes than Robby's ever owned in his whole life but he doesn't spend long looking at her physical appearance. His eyes are drawn instead to her vibrant, powerful aura and he can't help but take an instinctive pace backwards, glaring through frightened, narrowed eyes.

"Mr. Singer Junior, we meet again," the woman smiles and Robby frowns at her. He's never met this woman before and he sure as hell ain't a 'mister' anything. That's for important people, people in charge, people that matter and he ain't none of those.

"Such a powerful boy..." the lady muses and Robby clenches his fists, subconsciously moving into a fighting stance. How much does she know about him? How powerful is she?

"You don't remember me," She states and Scrap just continues to stare. It doesn't _look _like she wants to hurt him, he can't see any intent but...

The blonde looks away briefly, breathing a quiet, frustrated sigh; what use are his eyes here? Who knows what this lady might be able to do? She can probably mask her intentions easily...

"I'm not surprised," she continues. "You were sick, boy, _real _sick."

Scrap's gaze snaps immediately back to her as she speaks that. This lady, she...she was here when he was healed? Was it her? Did she do it? But he can remember that voice...._soon_...so soft and gentle and kind, it doesn't sound like the woman stood in the doorway. But then...he'd been so sick, did he dream it? Without the certainty of his enhanced sight it's so hard to know what's real.

"Now, Jim, are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna introduce us?"

Scrap hears a shuffling of footsteps and he breaks his gaze away from the woman once again to see Pastor Jim walk over to them. He tries not to flinch when Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to draw comfort from the touch but he's scared and lost in his frightening imagination of what this woman might want from him.

"Scrap, this is my good friend, Missouri Mosely. Missouri, this is Scrap."

Robby nods and wonders what he's supposed to be doing. Is he supposed to say something? What's the right thing to say?

"Say hello," Jim prompts and Robby tenses, panicking.

"H-hello, ma'am," Robby stammers out, staring at the floor.

"Respectful," Missouri smiles in response. "Not like you pair!"

"What?" Sam's laughing and Robby figures he's just pretending to be mad, he sure hopes so anyway.

"Don't play innocent with me, boy," the lady, Missouri, chuckles and Robby instinctively clenches his fists, ready to defend Sam if he has to.

"I bet I wouldn't have to threaten this one with a spoon to get him to behave," the woman continues and Robby's heart pounds even harder, sweat prickling on his forehead as he shudders at the thought of this woman's punishment.

"Robby?" He can barely hear Pastor Jim's voice over his own thumping pulse but he cringes from the man's touch.

"I'll behave," he whispers, staring blankly ahead as his sight fills with visions of the past. "I'll be good."

He can hear voices from somewhere but he's drowning as a wave of memories washes over him and pulls him deeper down into the darkness. Roby hardly notices as his knees hit the floor as a thousand needle-like memories prick at his consciousness; he's helpless and drowning and this time Dean's not here to save him.

* * *

Jim gasps as Robby's knees hit the flood with a sickening crack. The kid's staring through Missouri with vacant, empty eyes and the pastor stifles a very un-Christian curse as he crouches down beside the boy.

"Robby?"

"Don't hit me...please?"

Scrap's looking at him but Jim doesn't know what the kid's seeing.

"No-one's going to hit you," Jim promises, tilting Robby's head to look at him. The kid's hair is damp at the roots and Jim sighs sadly as he dries his hands on his trousers, so much fear...

"James?" Missouri's made her way over to them, walking with surprising grace for a woman of her stature.

"He's alright," Jim assures her. Already he can see Robby focussing on him. "You with us, kid?"

"I-I'm sorry," Robby stammers out, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry, I got...I-"

"I spooked you didn't I, kid?" Missouri sighs as Jim helps Robby to his feet. "I'm sorry."

Jim watches as Scrap cocks his head to one side looking bewildered and a little frightened.

"Huh?" The kid mumbles.

"I said I'm sorry," Missouri replies softly. "I'm so used to dealing with these Winchester brutes I forget some guys still got a sensitive side."

Jim smiles at Missouri's comment, signalling discretely to Sam. "Scrap, will you go with Sam and lock the church doors?" the pastor asks and Robby nods, eager as ever.

"Yes Sir," he agrees and Jim smiles his thanks to Sam who leads Scrap away with a strong arm round his shoulder.

Both Jim and Missouri stand in silence until they hear the door creak closed and heaving equally relieved sighs, the pair of slump into their respective seats, lounging like a couple of wasted teenagers.

"Oh my days..." Missouri sighs, running a hand through her frizzy hair. "That wasn't a good first impression."

"I told you he was shy," Jim chuckles hollowly, taking no pride in actually surprising his usually all-knowing friend for once. How could he take any happiness from Robby's suffering?

"_Shy_?" Missouri echoes incredulously, shaking her head. "Boy looked like he thought I was gonna serve him up on a platter."

Jim just shrugs helplessly, it's true but...what can he do?

"That boy is _scared_, James..." Missouri sighs, one hand hovering over her chest. "_So _scared."

"Of course he is." Jim doesn't know why he feels so defensive over Robby but for some reason he can't help but stand up for the boy. "You're a stranger, he's afraid of you."

"What did they do to him, Jim?" Missouri whispers wearily. "To both of them..."

"I don't know," Jim admits. Truth be told, Robby very rarely volunteers information about his past and Jim doesn't want to pressure him into it. Whether he _should _be pressuring or not he can't tell. He's not a father, not even sure if he's cut out to be one for a well-adjusted kid, let alone a boy as disturbed as Robby.

Jim's thoughts are disturbed as Sam and Robby re-enter the room, Robby thankfully looking a little less pale than before.

"All locked up," Sam grins and Jim deliberately catches the boy's gaze.

"Everything's okay?" he asks pointedly, sighing in relief when Sam nods, clapping Robby gently on the back.

"Everything's okay."

"Good," Jim smiles as some of the tension drains from his body. "That's good."

"Let's sit down," Missouri suggests. "We've got a lot to talk about."

* * *

Robby gulps as he finishes speaking, concentrating so hard on the floor he half expects to see right through it. Yeah right, his eyes aren't _that _good.

"Just..what does this all _mean_?" Pastor Jim asks sounding tired and Robby chews nervously on his bottom lip hoping the man isn't expecting _him _to answer.

"Murphy I got no idea what you're looking at me for."

Not him then. Robby breathes a silent sigh of relief as he hears Missouri snap at Pastor Jim.

"Just to see your petty eyes, Miss Mosely."

Robby looks up as he hears a smile in Pastor Jim's tone and he risks a little smile himself as he studies Missouri's unimpressed face and Sam's weary expression.

"_Guys_! Can we...you know...visions...remember?" Sam blusters, gesturing with his hands and Robby giggles quietly.

"Yes. Let's," Missouri replies with a sternness that can Robby can tell she doesn't really feel.

"What does this mean, Robby?" Sam asks as he catches Robby's eye and Scrap shrugs.

"Kubrick said...that we were the devil's children. I-I don't know if it's true," he replies, hoping his answer will be good enough. He's not used to people wanting to know stuff from him, not unless it's about a vision. He's dumb, they're asking a dumb person, don't they realise that?

"I wouldn't trust a word that man ever spoke," Jim announces and Robby shrugs half-heartedly.

"I-I was just saying what he said..." he mumbles quietly. "I'm sorry."

Jim sighs at that, reaching out to gently touch Robby's shoulder. "No _I'm _sorry, Scrap. I'm not mad at you it just...it makes me angry what that man did to you, in the name of the Lord as well."

"It's okay," Robby tries to smile as he sees Pastor Jim's eyes brimming with moisture. "Don't cry, it's ok, it...it wasn't so bad," the blonde lies as he remembers all the horrible hours he had spent being tortured by Kubrick. It had been 'bad', it had been horrible, terrifying but no-one else needs to know that.

"Pull yourself together, James," Missouri comments from the corner and Robby watches the man pull himself under control. He can't help but be suspicious about why this woman has such control over Pastor Jim, it _looks _like she cares about him but Robby knows he can't trust anything he sees around this lady.

"Listen you two."

Robby pays attention as Missouri addresses him and Sam.

"Dean is right you know, you two can't tell anyone else about this. Not a soul. Robby you don't go using that power you hear me? Not unless you have no other choice, no other choice at all."

"Yes ma'am," Robby agrees. It's not like he _likes_ healing people anyway – it's exhausting.

Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it...

But he can't help but think about it. The traumatising evenings where Edwin would beat Dean until he was close to death only to have Robby pull him back from the brink. And then he'd do it again, and again, and again until Dean, broken and bloody, was begging him not to heal again, not to make him suffer any more and Robby barely had the strength to disobey him.

Dean would hate him for days after that; they'd fight as Dean threatened to make Robby see what it felt like to be agony for hours and then they'd both get beaten for fighting with each other.

For an ability that was supposed to heal and nurture, Robby knows that he only seems to bring pain and suffering wherever he takes it. Maybe he shouldn't be around these kind, kind people, isn't only a matter of time before he hurts them too?

And as Missouri, Pastor Jim and Sam debate what these powers mean for them all, Robby remains miserably silent, haunted by memories he'd love to get out of his head but with no idea how to even _start _explaining how he feels.

* * *

Dean's gaze darts from side to side as he surveys his unfamiliar surroundings. This isn't the route home and that fact makes him anxious. John....Dad...man it's gonna take a while for that to sink in. _Dad _better not be taking him back to Security, he ain't going back there.

"We just need to pick up some supplies," Dad tells him. "You don't mind do you?"

Dean minds...as much as bait _can _mind but he's not dumb enough to expect it to matter. Really he kinda wants to go back and talk to Sam and Robby. For all his talk about leaving them to fend for themselves, he knows he can't do it really. He still thinks the Robby's an idiot for telling everyone about his abilities but, hell, if he's gonna trust John Winchester enough to call the man his father then can really blame Robby for wanting to trust Pastor Jim?

Life was much easier when they didn't trust anyone. Easier...lonelier...Dean doesn't want to think about it.

He realises, as he feels John's dark-eyes gaze on him, that he still hasn't answered and he shrugs his response. _Whatever_.

"Sam will show you around proper when you feel up to it," John continues and Dean clenches his jaw. He's never going to 'feel up to it'. He doesn't give a shit about any of those hunters and none of them give a shit about him. He's bait, he doesn't belong in society, Dad and Sam just need to get that.

As Dad leads him further into the centre of camp, Dean can't help but walk a little closer to the man. It's pathetic, utterly pathetic, and Dean hates himself for it but the memory of Dad's arm round his shoulder as the man pointed a gun, willing to _kill _to protect him...Dean can't help but cling to that.

"Winchester!"

It takes Dean a second to remember why that's familiar, he has a surname now, and he panics as he turns with Dad to see an unfamiliar stranger walking towards him.

"Rufus."Dad's smiling but Dean can't even bring himself to look at that man. Instead, he stares down at the man's hands, ready to react in case he reaches for a weapon or makes a fist.

"This is him, eh?" Rufus continues and can _feel _the man's eyes on him. "Your boy."

"This is Dean," Dad tells the man, and Dean risks a glance up at the sound of his name.

The stranger, 'Rufus', has dark skin, but not as dark as Walker's. His eyes are a deep brown; the man has a hard stare but it doesn't seem cruel. His face is dotted with a hint of stubble that starts underneath the tips of his moustache and reaches edges round his jawline. He's well-built, strong, but Dean thinks his Dad could probably take the guy down if he had to.

"Hello, Dean. I'm Rufus Turner, friend of your old man," Rufus speaks, catching Dean's gaze and Dean looks instinctively over to his father. Should he speak? What should he say?

"Say hello," Dad prompts and Dean somehow manages to stammer out the word.

"H-Hello."

He doesn't get why anyone would want to hear him speak but he figures it's safest just to do what Dad says while he's here in this unfamiliar territory.

Rufus extends a hand to him, like Hendrickson had done and Dean just stares at the appendage.

"Shake his hand," Dad prompts again, sounding almost embarrassed and Dean feels his face flush hot and red; he's making Dad look bad in front of his friend, he's making a fool of himself, showing how fucked up he is.

"Like this," Dad instructs as he grips the man's hand in his own and moves it up and down. It looks bizarre but Dean does his best to copy when it's his turn, careful not to grip the man's hand too tight.

"Nice to meet you, Dean," Rufus nods and Dean stares past the man's head. He can't talk any more, he hates this, hates every awful second of it.

Has Dad done this on purpose? Brought him to meet other people, _normal _people, to remind him what a freak he is... But Dean knew that already, he doesn't need reminding, he never forgot. How _could _he forget when it had been beaten into him every day of his life since he was four years old?

The man clears his throat when there's no response and Dean flinches from the harsh sound.

"I gotta ask," Rufus sighs and Dean doesn't know if the man's still speaking to him or if he's talking to Dad now. "Bait...all this time....is it true?"

Fuck no... Dean's trembling as he hears the man dredging up his past. He doesn't want some random guy knowing his pathetic life. And he sure as hell doesn't want to talk about it. Not now, not here. It's his life, _his _memories, can't he keep them to himself? Why do people have to talk about him? He's only bait, a tool, you don't talk about your guns or your bullets like they're people so why would you talk about your bait like that? Don't they get that?! Dean wants to scream at them until they get that.

Dean watches Dad nod and he relaxes a fraction, maybe Dad won't talk about it after all. Maybe they can just go home now.

"The bastard who bought him?" Rufus asks and Dean shivers at the memory of Edwin's face.

"Dead," Dad responds flatly. "And two of the bastards that helped him."

Rufus is nodding. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

There's a silence for moment and Dean hopes with everything he has that the conversation is over.

"Never heard of a bait lasting that long," the man adds, whistling under his breath and Dean stares at the ground as he considers the man's words. He knows there are other baits around, all better at the job than him, but he's never met any.

Edwin often told him how other people trained their bait and Dean figured he was lucky not to have got stuck with one of _those _guys. Edwin had spent a terrifying few weeks debating an idea he'd picked up from another hunter who'd cut his bait's Achilles tendon so it couldn't run.

Dean had pretended not to be scared, glowering at Edwin like he didn't care, but, back in the cell he pleaded with Robby over and over to promise him that he could heal him if it happened.

You can heal it right? You _can..._tell me you could. Robby, please, you can heal it...tell me you can heal it if he does that me.

Robby had promised him he could and Dean had clung to that promise as Edwin would teasingly trace the knife round the back of his ankle. The bastard had decided against it eventually and but Dean hadn't even dared to feel relieved; Edwin's moods could change at any time and surely it was only a matter of time before he got some other idea on what to do to his bait.

Dean also knew that most baits were kids like he'd been when Dad sold...when he was taken. There were adult baits too that Dean had heard of, apparently none who've survived as long as him though if this guy is right.

"If anyone could survive in that game it would be a Winchester," Rufus continues and Dean stares down at his feet. It's weird to hear people thinking of him as anything other than bait, of actually being part of a family. And it seems that people actually _respect _the Winchester name, it has some sort of reputation that Dean suspects he can never live up to. Dean's not sure he even deserves to be a Winchester at all.

"Anyway," Rufus shrugs, clearly figuring out that isn't something either of them want to talk about. "Things to do - see you around, John, Dean."

Dad nods his goodbye and Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to copy.

"You alright, kiddo?" Dad asks and Dean nods unconvincingly, still keeping his gaze trained on the ground.

"It won't always be like this every time we go out," the elder Winchester continues. "People are just happy you're finally back with us."

"Happy?" Dean echoes, frowning at the thought. "Why?"

"It's a bit of good news," John replies with a shrug and a hint of a smile. "We don't get much of that these days."

"I..." Dean kicks at the dirt, he doesn't really want to talk right now, but Sam said he should talk about stuff with Dad and so... "I don't understand."

Dad claps him lightly on the back and Dean does his best not to flinch as they begin walking again.

"I guess you don't," Dad agrees and Dean can't help but bristle at the man's tone.

"Don't feel sorry for me," he glowers and then feels almost guilty as Dad's face falls.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...just...I'm doing my best here, Dean."

Dean feels bad but has no idea how to make it right so he simply carries on staring at his father, his expression blank and emotionless.

"Look, Dean..." Dad pauses for a minute, scratching at his head before continuing. "Things are...different here to how you're used to. Those guys down there, they...well, they were assholes, Dean, cruel, ugly, motherfucking assholes."

Dean raises his eyebrows at that but can't help smirking – he'd always thought so too.

"People up here actually _like _other people," Dad continues before pausing and chuckling a little. "Sort of."

"It might seem weird to you at first, maybe for a long time, but you _are _a hunter, not bait, a **hunter **and hunters look after their own. People here are gonna look out for you, Dean, and they're going to _like _having you around."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his head before realising how much like Dad he's acting and dropping his hands down to his sides. Maybe he _kind _of likes the guy now, sort of, but that doesn't mean he wants to frikken _act_ like him – Dad's smart and streetwise and popular, Dean has no right to act like that when he's such a failure.

"I really don't understand," the younger Winchester sighs, shaking his head and Dad just claps him on the back once more.

"You will, son. One day you will."

**AN: Argh, this was a really crummy chapter - too many redundant scenes (NOT good in a fic as slow-paced as Bait), too many scene changes, too much waffle. Blaaaa. I've been so busy with my dissertation my writing is definitely suffering but I wanted to update, I hope you all understand. Sorry to disappoint with this chapter but I will make up with the next one - Dean's adventure into camp (NongPradu I know you've been waiting for that, lol). Thanks for sticking with me.**


	48. Chapter 48

**AN: Hi guys. I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated last. I wasn't gonna put why but I think it's not really fair if I don't. basically some people (I put the link but I don't think it will show up - it's not important anyway) took one of my old fics I wrote a lot of years ago and kind of like, ripped it to shreds basically. So yeah, it knocked my confidence quite a bit because I'm not very confident with my writing anyway. BUT anyway, here I am, here's an update to Bait (if anyone can even remember what's going on). I hope you enjoy it! **

**Chapter Forty Eight**

Dean stares down at his boots as he walks by his father's side. Edwin was retarded not to give him a pair of these, he could have run a hell of a lot quicker if he's had these on – having a fucking _rusty nail _sticking in your foot does tend to make running a bit tricky. Or a shard of glass, or a piece of shrapnel or... Dean sucks in a sharp breath at the memory of all that pain - not going there again.

Boots. Boots. He's got boots. Motherfucking boots. Fucking boots Edwin you fucker.

Edwin's dead, Dean, he tells himself. He knows that. But it still feels good, defying the bastard, even when he is dead. Dead. Dead – That's another good word to repeat.

"...heard they're trying to get a chopper fixed but ask me they're wasting their time."

Dean startles a little as his father's voice comes back into focus. Shit. He'd zoned out. Normally he'd get the shit beat out of him if one of his masters thought he wasn't listening but...Dean looks at his feet. He doesn't have masters, he has boots and a brother and a Dad.

"Sorry, Dad."

"If it was me-what? What was that Dean?" John..._Dad _pauses but he sounds confused, not angry. Dean could be honest and Dad wouldn't hit him...would he? Dean feels confident enough to test it out.

"I wasn't listening."

"It's been a rough day," Dad replies with a hint of a chuckle. "If I was you I wouldn't wanna listen to me either."

Dean smiles, not because Dad's said anything funny (although the man is acting like he thinks he has) but because he was right. Dad isn't pissed off. Dad didn't hit him. Dad even made an _excuse _for him. Dean's not sure how he feels about his past but the present...it ain't too bad.

"We need to swing by the farm, pick up our rations and the hanger for some med supplies."

The words mean nothing but Dean nods because he reckons Dad expects him to understand this and he's already embarrassed himself today with Rufus.

"They just gonna give it to you?" Dean asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I'm in good shape now, Dad, I can fight em."

Dad shakes his head, chuckling a little. "It's alright, Dean."

"I can run with the stuff. I'm fast."

"I know you are, son. I'm proud of you," Dad nods. "And one day I'm gonna need you to run and fight by my side. But, today, we're just shopping," the man finishes with a smile.

Dean nods and then frowns, feeling confused. "Then how are we gonna get the food? Are they _really _just gonna give it to you?"

"Ah." Dad's scratching at the back of his head. "Yeah I guess you wouldn't...I thought Sammy would've explained it. We-uh, we use ration coupons."

"I heard Sam mention them," Dean replies as he remembers earlier conversations with his brother. "He said you spent them, on me...on pain killers..." He'd been so confident when he started speaking but, out loud, the words just sound ridiculous and Dean can't even finish the sentence properly. As if Dad would spend these coupon things on _him _when they could be spent on food or anything.

"Did he also tell you that I told him not to mention that?" John chuckles and Dean pauses momentarily. Shit.

He doesn't want to lie to Dad but he doesn't want to get Sam into trouble either.

"Uuuh...may...be," Dean responds, looking at his father to gauge his reaction. The man stares back and Dean experiences a rare moment of eye contact before his father ducks his head and chuckles to himself. And Dean finds himself smirking too at how stupid he just sounded.

Dad catches his eye once again and then, noticing his expression, the man's quiet chuckling turns into all out laughter and, despite himself, Dean finds himself laughing too.

"Fucking hell kiddo," Dad laughs, shaking his head. "Ain't we a pair and a half?"

Dean glances at his father again before bursting into another snort of laughter. "You gotta promise not to tell Sammy about this," he replies and John rolls his eyes theatrically.

"Oh..._oh _you want _me _to keep things secret now when you two been blabbermouthing everything I say to each other?" Dad's grinning like an idiot and Dean tries to school his features into his usual semi-threatening expression.

"I-I've got an image to keep up," the younger Winchester responds, biting inside his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Oh, and I _don't_?" John retorts. "Are you saying your old man ain't cool?"

Dean pauses at that, his smile slowly fading from his lips, to the relief of his face which is kind of starting to ache. This is the man who killed Jeremy Edwin, and Gordon Walker. The man who bought him pain killers and took that crippling binding curse off his head. Dean doesn't think he loves him, isn't even 100% sure if he still _hates_ him or not but...respect - Dean thinks he might just have that.

"You _are _cool, Dad," he thinks to himself as he stares at his father. Except, judging by the delighted look on Dad's face, that wasn't to himself at all. As if he just said that out loud.

"O-only joking," the younger Winchester adds quickly, praying that Dad will buy it. The older man raises his eyebrows and nods but with a glint in his eye that makes Dean think the man knows better.

"You'll have some of your own coupons to spend anyway, eventually," Dad explains.

"How do you get them?" Dean asks, wondering why anyone would want to give him anything.

"You _earn_ them," Dad responds, with a hint of pride in his voice. "From hunting, mainly. Take out something that's a threat to the camp and you get ration coupons."

Dean raises an eyebrow as he considers this. Sounds simple enough.

"Course you can't hunt forever," Dad continues. "Once you reach 50, they cut you off from all that. Reckon you're too 'valuable'. Too much experience to risk."

"What do you do then?" Dean asks. What else is there to do besides hunt? What more is there in life?

"Sit around being old," John chuckles and Dean chews on his bottom lip. All the baits and the other kids had been young in Edwin's place. The men had all been older but Dean didn't know if any of them were 50 years old. Wouldn't have a clue even how to guess. Truth be told, he doesn't even know how old _he _is.

"How old am _I_?"

Dean watches as Dad flinches. It's barely noticeable, but Dean's so used to hiding his reactions he can see when others were trying to do the same. He figures Dad must think he's pretty dumb not to even know his own age.

"You're 24," Dad replies, his voice hoarse and his reply short. Dean just nods, wishing he hadn't said anything – the number doesn't mean anything to him anyway. He can barely even count past ten without having to concentrate real hard.

"So you." Dad pauses and clears his throat. "You don't have to worry about sitting about being old just yet."

"That's really all they do?" Dean questions and Dad laughs a little.

"No, thank God," the man replies. "They just reckon the seniors are too…precious to risk out in the field so they give 'em roles here in the camp."

"_Who_ gives them roles?" Dean asks. It feels kinda weird, to be talking so much, especially with Dad but Dean likes being able to ask questions without being hit. Likes having someone give him answers too, even if Dad and Sammy and Jim probably _do _think he's dumb.

"The Judiciary," Dad answers, his expression and tone of voice suggesting he doesn't reckon much to them at all. "They…well, they set the Code and the rule in the trials on any breaches. Most of the seniors just go straight on there to be honest but, some do other stuff. Jim's a preacher, there's a few teachers in the school, medics, treasurers. They're a few other ways of getting ration coupons."

Dean knows he couldn't do any of that but he knows you can buy and sell baits. Dad wouldn't…sell him, would he?

Suddenly, Dean doesn't feel like talking at all.

* * *

Robby stuffs his hands into his pockets as he walks along the track. It took some pleading to let Sam, Miss Missouri and Pastor Jim let him walk back to Dean's house alone but he'd done it eventually. He'd had to lie, said he didn't feel well and he wanted to see Dean. Pastor Jim and Sam had been really against it but Miss Missouri had told them that he needed to be on his own at _some _time why not now when hardly anyone in the camp even knows he exists?

Every now and again he keeps checking around, using his advanced sight to check around for danger. Miss Missouri told him not to use his abilities but Robby knows that's not an option, he needs to keep safe.

Everything seems pretty normal until he's walking past Miss Missouri's house. And then everything is really, really _not _normal. Robby slows to a stop as he stands outside the structure. It looks….wrong. It looks like he shouldn't be looking at it. Robby's shocked…and curious. He was always curious as a little kid but over the years it had been beaten out of him. Now though…there's no around to hit him, shout at him. _Now_ he can stop and look.

Robby takes a step forward and then checks around, with external _and_ internal sight. There's no one around apart from a few people in the distance. Dean and John are walking somewhere. Miss Missouri, Pastor Jim and Sam are still in the house. Robby hisses in a sharp breath as his head starts to ache, he'd forgotten how much it hurts when he pushes his powers too far.

He takes another step and he can almost _feel _the magic surrounding this house. Powerful magic, more powerful than anything Robby's ever seen before. With another step, Robby's in reaching distance of the building and he stretches out his arm, brushing a fingertip against the rough brick surface. He half expects his fingertip to burn at the contact but there's no pain, no backlash, just a bone-deep feeling that he **should not **be looking at this place. And it's that feeling that makes it so impossible to look away.

His temples are thumping, the faded scars along his forehead and jawline start to prickle. Enchanted marks that betray his use of magic and control it with the right enchantment. Edwin had them carved into him when he was three years old, along with most of the other kids. There's a binding spell, like Dean's, but Robby was never disobedient enough for Edwin to use it on him. Disobedient or brave? Either way, Robby never threatened any of his trainers so he'd been spared that pain. The other marks though, they were there for another purpose. The normally faint, barely noticeable marks would come alive if he was using his abilities to a certain extent. The more he used them, the stronger the marks would burn, turning a deep, dark black on his pale skin. A 'warning sign' Edwin called it, to let him know if he was using his powers without permission.

"I know you wouldn't betray me," he'd say when Scrap would absently touch the side of his face during training. "But there are others who might use their powers against me. If we can _see _when they're trying to do it, we have a chance to stop it."

And of course "It lets me see if you're _really _trying to obey".

But as hard and as hard as Robby _would_ try, as vivid and scalding as the marks around his eye and forehead would burn, Edwin would _never_ believe he was trying his best. He'd beat him, beat _Dean_, anything to push him further. Robby breaths out a shuddering breath as he remembered the blinding agony, the feel his knees hitting the concrete as he'd collapse, seizing on the floor and waking to Dean's worried face. The boy staggers back a pace, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if trying to push the memories out of his brain. Suddenly he wishes very much that he _wasn't _alone. What had seemed like a chance to prove he wasn't a useless tag-along to Dean, seemed more like proof that he couldn't cope alone.

"Suck it up, Scrap," he orders himself, his hands dropping to his sides and balling into fists. He _is _brave. He'll prove it. He'll go in this building. The only building that has walls he can't see through.

It's reckless, dangerous, it's really fucking stupid. Pastor Jim ordered him to go straight to Dean's house – it's _disobedient_. But Robby's obeyed orders his whole life and all it's brought him is scars and seizures and pain. He's spent his whole life doing what other people tell him to and now he's finally alone he has the _choice _to disobey.

With a deep breath, Robby strides towards the house and places his hand on the handle. Locked. Scrap lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Now the initial rush is over he's beginning to realise what a stupid idea this was in the first place. Seriously! He's _lucky _he didn't go in there. Robby stumbles backwards so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet.

A moment of madness.

Another sweep with his powers sets his mind at ease a little. There's no one here, no one to see, no-one, no one, no one… Robby whispers the words in time with his slowing heartbeat as he closes his eyes trying to calm himself.

No one saw anything…Robby turns to walk away, barely standing on his shaking legs. The God that pastor Jim talks about _really _must be looking after him today because if anyone-

"Put your fucking hands up!"

Scrap freezes, his stomach dropping as he hears a woman's voice and the click of a gun safety. The voice is coming from the doorway and, with a quick glance using his abilities, he can see the gun barrel poking through the ajar door. Behind it, a girl with long blonde hair.

"I said, put your hands up!"

Scrap obeys, kneeling down on the ground and placing his hands on his head. He kind of feels like he's waiting to be lashed. Does it make him a freak that kneeling in submission feels normal to him? Something ordinary in this very un-ordinary day.

"Who the hell are you?"

The voice sounds more scared than threatening – Scrap can tell because it's just like his voice sounds when he tries to stand up to Dean. Except it's a girl. And she's holding a gun so Scrap doesn't know why she's scared. Maybe she thinks he can stop bullets with his powers? Does she know about his powers?

Robby's heart feels like it just turned to stone and dropped into his stomach. Edwin…what if she's something to do with Edwin?

"Please…" the word only comes out in a whisper. "Don't make me go…" He can't even finish the words, fear gripping his throat so tight it's like he can't even breathe.

"Not so brave now, huh?" The girl sounds like she's smirking and for a minute she sounds just like Ava. Ava's one of the only girls Robby's ever met, it would make sense if they were all like her he figures. But Miss Missouri – she's a lady…that means she was a girl once…His head hurts.

"Stand up and come inside," the girl orders. "_Slowly_. If you try anything I'll shoot you."

It sounds like she's lying but Robby doesn't want to try it. He knows he can't run faster than bullet. He stands and turns slowly…keeping his hands raised. He can see the girl better now. Long hair, the same shade as his and pale skin like his too. Her aura though…shit! Robby stop looking straight away. He shouldn't use his powers when other people are around.

"Come inside the house," the girl orders and Robby walks slowly, his eyes focussed on the barrel of the gun. As soon as he's in the doorway, he kneels down again, as compliant as he can be. Maybe if he's obedient he won't have to go back to….he doesn't want to go back.

The door slams shut and Scrap flinches as he feels the cold metal of the gun barrel at the back of his head and a quiet voice in his ear.

"My Mom's gonna kill you when she gets back."


	49. Chapter 49

**AN: I moved house and finally got internet back! I hope you like this chapter. **

Chapter Forty Nine

Robby can still feel the cold metal of a gun barrel against the back of his head. He wonders if this girl would actually pull the trigger. He deserves it, for touching what isn't his but…he doesn't want it. He doesn't want to die. Not any more. Not when things are finally getting…nice.

"Who are you?" the girl demands, her voice wavering as she pushes the gun harder against his neck.

"Scrap."

"What?" The girl sounds confused and Robby just stares at the floor, despondent.

"That's who…that's what I am."

"A-are you a demon?" the girl asks, Robby shakes his head a fraction. "How did you get in here then? No one should be able to get in here!"

"I-I didn't mean to!" Robby cries, his own anxiety increasing and amplified off his captor's. "I just…I was curious and there weren't no-one around, I didn't mean to break no rules."

The girl almost laughs then and Robby feels the pressure at the back of his neck ease off a fraction. "Like, you thought you'd just walk in someone's house and they wouldn't care?"

"I realised…I stopped when it was locked."

"Were you looting?" The girl sounds less harsh now, almost concerned. Why would she be concerned for a stranger? "You look skinny. I know somewhere you can get help you know, food and a place to sleep, you don't have to steal to get that."

"I wasn't gonna steal anything," it's important that this girl doesn't think he's a thief. Robby doesn't know why it's important, it just is.

"If you're one of _Them _then they should be ashamed of themselves sending a kid to pull crap like this. You only look the same age as me, are you really one of Them?"

"I uh…I don't think so." Robby really has no idea what the girl is talking about but she's not doing the whole 'intimidation' thing too well. Then again, the gun at the back of his head is doing that just fine.

"I haven't met many other people…are they all as weird as you?" Robby can hear that the girl is smiling as she speaks which is pretty weird because it's not too long ago since she was threatening to shoot him.

"I-I dunno," he stammers his response. "I ain't met a whole lotta people either."

"I bet you've met more than me," she sounds almost bitter and Robby just shrugs.

"Maybe."

There's a brief silence before the girl is asking questions again, almost like she can't help it. "Aren't you scared of dying? Like, I thought you'd be like begging or crying or something…aren't you…afraid?"

"Begging and crying don't do you no good, I ain't stupid." Now it's Scrap who sounds bitter. And he _is_ bitter and angry, with _himself_. He had everything and now he's fucked it all up. He's lost everything. Right now, Scrap feels like he might as well be dead.

Another pause, longer this time. "Did they say it wouldn't work on me or something? It certainly won't work on Mom, everyone knows that."

Robby just glares down at the floor, feeling his eyes welling with stinging tears. He hates crying but, as strong as he wants to be, he can't stop thinking about how different things would have been if he'd just gone straight back to Mr Winchester's house, or stayed with Pastor Jim.

"A-are you…crying?" the girl's voice sounds concerned and Robby scowls, hating her fake compassion.

"No!"

"Y-you _are_…" she sounds so genuine, so _nice_, that Robby's reminded for a second of all the nice people he's met so far…people that he'll never see again now because this girl's going to shoot him in the head.

He…he can't take this – he _really _can't take this! Robby screws his eyes shut as lashes out with the most Dean-like phrase he can think of.

"Just fuck off you stupid bitch! Go ahead and fucking shoot me and I'll see you and your fat bitch of a Mom in-"

A stinging pain erupts across Robby's cheek as his head whips to the side. The sound of the slap is still ringing in his ears as he opens one of his clenched-shut eyes to try and figure out what's happening now. It's been a while since he's been hit, not counting Dean of course, he'd kinda forgotten about how much it could hurt.

"Mom!" The girl from before is yelling but she sounds shocked and annoyed with her Mom. Maybe cos all she did was slap him when she was meant to be killing him?

"Boy if I ever hear those words come out your mouth again I'll make sure you don't speak for a month."

"I…I thought you were gonna kill me though?" Still in shock from the slap and bewildered at seeing Miss Missouri, it's all Robby can think to say.

"I still might just do that if I don't get some good answers out of you boy."

Robby's never seen Miss Missouri look all angry and suspicious. Still, he's never disobeyed her before so it figures. Robby sighs, at least she hasn't shot him yet.

"You need to listen to me real close right now kid," Missouri continues. "You hear me?"

Robby nods a little, glancing up briefly to check the woman has seen, before looking back down at the ground.

"This is my daughter, if you touch her, you'll die."

Robby frowns, Miss Missouri has a daughter? A white daughter? He...doesn't get it.

"Look at me." Missouri orders and Robby lifts his gaze from the floor once again. Miss Misouri pauses before reaching out a hand to him.

Robby cringes away, taking a sharp breath and closing his eyes as he waits for the next hit. He's surprised then, to feel only a gentle push under his chin, tilting the angle of his head. As he cracks his eyes open he finds himself looking straight into Miss Missouri's dark eyes.

"What I said, about my daughter, I meant that literally, you understand what that means? If you touch her you will _drop dead_."

Robby frowns softly, glancing out of the corner of his eyes at the blonde haired girl who's moved to stand behind her mother, the gun still in her delicate hands.

"She has powers?" he asks and Missouri nods, letting go of his chin.

"Yes," the lady nods, "That's why I have to go so far to keep her secret and safe."

The woman pauses for a minute, brushing her hand softly over the stinging red mark where she had hit him. "I'm sorry, honey," she sighs and Robby swallows round the lump in his throat – is it now she's gonna kill him?

"For what?" he asks quietly.

"For having you kneeling down there looking like you think I'm gonna eat you."

Robby's eyes widen at that – _eat _him? He hadn't been thinking _that_!

"Come on, stand up," Miss Missouri helps him up, brushing some of the dust off his clothes. "I thought I'd had my fill of long, serious conversations for one day but looks like we gotta have another doesn't it? Lily, brew us some tea, hon, I'm thinking we might be here for a while".

* * *

"We need food, water. The rest can wait for later," Dad explains as they trek into the centre of camp.

Dean nods vaguely, more interested in looking at his surroundings than listening to his father. There're a lot more people around now, more people than Dean can remember seeing in his whole life. Or is it… Dean frowns as images trickle into his memories. People but…not like here. People dressed in bright clothes, all looking well-fed and happy and…so _many people_, and noisy machines and huge tall buildings and… Dean shakes his head to try and clear the images away but he…he _remembers. _He just can't figure out _what_ it is he remembers.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?" Dean watches out of the corner of his eyes and sees his father smile at the word. Usually all he does is piss people off and make them wanna hurt him, it's a nice change.

"Did we…have we…" Dean frowns as he tries to put the hazy, mixed up memories into words. "Have we done this before?"

"What?" his father frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know…" Dean murmurs. "I-I don't know, Dad."

Dad smiles again, slowly, gently, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "We'll figure it out," he promises. And for some weird reason, Dean kinda believes him.

"These are the farms," Dad explains as the landscape around them starts to change. There are trees, but not the towering, huge trees that he's seen out on the plains and in the distance on the hills outside camp. These trees are still taller than he is but they're thin, and the tops are round. And on them are…coloured round balls? Dean squints to try and figure it out.

"Fruit trees," Dad says, following Dean's stare. "Citrus doesn't grow here anymore but apples and pears and a couple of other things. Enough for everyone to get a couple of their five a day anyways," Dad laughs at his own joke and Dean just rubs at his head in confusion.

"Why…why would they put the food up there in a tree? So people can't steal it?"

Dad pauses for a second before he answers. "No Dean, it-it _grows _there, doesn't it?"

"On a _tree_?" Dean wants to go to the tree, to touch it. He never was any good with words and stuff, Dean knows what he can see and touch and taste and… Dean concentrates for a moment, memorising the route they took to get here. He doesn't get why the food is in a tree but if someone's dumb enough to leave their food out in the open then Dean ain't gonna think twice about taking it.

"They got more food further up, rows and rows of it. Potatoes mostly, a whole lot of potatoes," John chuckles.

"What's a potato?" Damn, Dean feels like Robby asking all these dumb questions. But Dad's never hit him for asking a question and, the more info he can get about this weird new outside world, the easier things will be he figures. It's worth the risk of Dad thinking he's a retard if it makes it more likely he'll survive.

Dad pauses and tries to smile. "I'll take you there one day and we can look around properly."

Dean nods, his stomach rumbling at the thought of all that food as he keeps walking.

"That's the school," John nods to another building and Dean chews on the inside of his cheek as he thinks about the word.

"School…You've talked about that before."

"You don't know…"Dad looks mad for a second. "Course you don't. School is…it's where kids go to learn."

"Learn…" Dean hates that word. _When are you going to __**learn**__? We can do this all day until you __**learn, **__Bait. You're bait, the sooner you __**learn **__that, the better._

"There's more to learn about than just hunting," Dad sounds almost bitter. "Reading, writing, maths, geography, science, art. There's a whole world of stuff out there for you to learn, Dean."

Dean just scoffs bitterly, shaking his head. "I can't learn stuff like that."

Dad stops for a minute and then shakes his head. "Course you can, you're a Winchester."

"I told Sam. Edwin tried to teach-"

"Hey, don't even **go** there," Dad scowls. "You are _my _son and you listen to _me _and if I say you can do it then you can do it."

Dean shrugs, unconvinced. "I don't need any of that stuff anyway. Never even heard of most of it."

Dad glances up at the sky as he starts walking, "Not a lot of things separate us from animals, Dean but human intelligence is what puts us at the top of the food chain."

Dean's still not convinced but Dad seems to care a lot about it so he shrugs. "If you say so, Dad."

"See?" John grins in response. "You're learning already."

* * *

John squares his shoulders and keeps his chin up as he and Dean enter the busiest part of the camp. The closest thing they've got to a bar round here though John's staying well away from that homebrew shit after what happened last time.

He looks tough, serious and mean, or at least he hopes so because on the inside he feels like frolicking through the whole camp. To think Dean would ever be walking by his side, calling him Dad, holding an actual conversation…he'd never have believed it could be possible.

"Dad…" Dean's voice in his ear. "They're all looking at me." Dean sounds spooked and John's not surprised, every eye in the place is on them right now.

"Look right back," he orders, watching with pride as Dean hesitates for a fraction of a second and then fixes the crowd with a defiant glare. That's my boy. "Come on," john tugs on Dean's arm, leading him over to the notice board. As they walk, a couple of people start losing interest and looking away and nobody's dumb enough to approach them.

"This is the board," he explains, gesturing to the huge wooden board, littered with posters. Scouts go out and see what demons are around, what's an immediate threat to us, what has the potential to be a threat, anything that's worth killing really. They run it past the judiciary who decide the bounty and then post it on here. First one to complete it gets the reward, the ration coupons. In a nutshell, that's how we survive."

"How do you know what the posters mean?" Dean asks and John's heart sinks a little bit. He doesn't know how he can keep forgetting these important things about his son.

"Well, that's where the reading comes in," he replies. "There's other stuff too, we organise supply runs now and again. Trips into the cities to get essentials if we run out. Luckily, that doesn't happen too much. Stuff for sale, stuff that's wanted, people-"

"Hey!" John frowns as Dean tugs on his sleeve. "That one's got my name on it!"

John's heart dips for a moment as his eyes settle on what Dean's talking about. Just remembering the raw pain associated with the poster makes his heart sink.

"Dee, ee, ay, nuh, Dean," Dean spells out and for a moment, John's head is reeling. He's not in the middle of camp looking for his next hunt with his tortured and kidnapped son, he's back at home with his healthy, happy four-year old boy, writing in a card for his Mommy.

"A-and the second bit says Winchester. I know cos it was written in my clothes. It's got my name, Dad. Not 'Bait', it says my name!" Dean sounds so excited and John's heart is breaking as he reaches up and tears off the tattered, faded piece of paper.

"I wrote this," John explains as Dean stares at him, wide-eyed, "When you were…when you were gone I…I wrote these, hundreds of these and posted them everywhere."

"Why?" Dean asks in genuine, heart breaking confusion.

"Remember I said I offered people money to find you? Well this was one of the ways. Posted them up, every month a new one, made sure they didn't get lost under the other stuff or ripped."

"You mean…you didn't just give up on me?"

"I _never _gave up on you, Dean," John feels choked up and goddamnit he sure as hell isn't gonna cry in a room full of the roughest, meanest hunters there is.

"Anyway, this might as well be fuel for the fire now, doesn't mean a thing now you're here," John crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it to the ground, wishing he could crush and discard his memories of the past like that too.

It's almost like Dean's _proving _to him that it won't be that easy when he reaches down picks up the crumpled ball of paper, pressing it close to his chest and staring John right in the eyes.

"It means something to me."


	50. Chapter 50

**AN: Sorry for the long wait as usual folks! **

Chapter Fifty

Sam's hand strays to the firearm at his side when he hears someone enter the front door.

"It's us."

Dad's voice puts him at ease and Sam smiles when he sees his father and brother enter with their arms full of stuff. Dean stares back at him, his expression unreadable and Sam scratches at the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable.

"Hey," he greets, moving to help Dad put away the supplies.

"How was your discussion?" Dad asks, his voice gruff and brisk. Sam hopes he hasn't got mad with Dean while they've been alone together.

"It was fine," Sam replies with a shrug. He's gone over this same thing so many times now that he really can't be bothered to do it again. Luckily It seems like Dad can't be bothered either as he carries on putting the stuff away in near silence.

Screw him.

"Watcha get, Dean?" he asks, forcing a hint of cheeriness into his voice. He hasn't forgotten Dean's furious glare as he left Pastor Jim's house.

"Food and stuff," Dean replies. He's surly but Sam knows that's nothing new. It's doesn't necessarily mean Dean's pissed off with him.

"Cool," Sam says, just to fill the silence. God he hates silence.

"Tell him what else," Dad prompts and Sam watches with interest as Dean breaks into something of a smile.

"Dad found a hunt, he said we should train for it."

Sam's breath catches in his throat. It's an effort for him to force the words out of his throat. "What?"

"There's been a few stray vamps getting a bit close to the borders, and we just spent the last of our ration coupons," Dad explains, as if what Dean's just said is no big deal.

"…okay, but…." Sam tries to sound calm, as he gestures, somewhat obviously to his brother.

"Dean's going to start training," Dad explains, his expression suggesting he's not impressed with Sam's scepticism. Sam rolls his eyes - discretion has never been Dad's strong point. "He might not make this one, we'll see, but we'll get him ready for next time."

"Dean? Are you okay with this?"

"I'm not gonna be bait this time. Dad…Dad promised," Dean replies, casting a glance to Dad for reassurance.

Sam's surprised at that, Dean trusting Dad. It's a nice change…a good change. So why does he feel so bitter?

"In fact," Dad continues, a gleam coming into his eyes. "Why don't we get started now?"

* * *

Dean breathes deeply as he stands in the middle of the living room. There's a place in camp where people train to fight and hunt, a 'dojo' Sam calls it, but for now Dad said they should train at home. And Dean's happy about that, his head is still spinning from everything he's seen this morning, he doesn't want to go into camp again.

Sam's across the room wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt. Dean feels conscious and embarrassed as he tugs on the long sleeves of Dad's hoodie. He's looking forward to showing Dad and Sam he can be useful but at the same time, he always hates the pain that comes with training.

"Here you go," Dad passes him a pair of padded gloves and Dean pulls them on, flexing his hands and wrists. He can't help but frown though when Dad throws an identical pair to Sam and he looks to the older man for clarification.

"Dean?" They don't get why he's confused and Dean struggles with the urge to tell them both to fuck off. Why are they playing games with him? But usually when he asks, they don't laugh at him, they just answer. Sometimes they look sad when they do it but they never hit him and never laugh at him. He just needs to try and talk.

"Why does Sam have to wear gloves?"

Sam laughs, looking confused. "The same reason that you do," he shrugs. "Protection."

Another difference, Dean figures as he stares down at his own hands. Once he got old enough and strong enough to start landing a few hits, Edwin had started making him wear gloves when they sparred. Edwin himself wouldn't wear them of course, his blows would still break Dean's nose or ribs. When he fought Robby, neither of them would wear gloves, to 'toughen you up,' Edwin would say. Dean still remembers the guilt he'd feel when Robby would heal his injuries with what little energy he had left and then suffer with his own pain for days and weeks afterwards. Of course, Robby wasn't bait, he didn't need to run for his life every fucking week. It's easier to feel angry than to feel guilty or helpless.

Dean nods, realising he's drifted off again. He's not gonna complain at something that means he gets beaten up less.

"We'll do a warm up first. Dean it's been a while since you trained right so I want you to take care, alright?"

"But…" Dean has no idea what Dad's talking about. "I'm not cold."

"Edwin didn't tell you about stretching and stuff…" Dad's nodding but Dean can see his jaw is clenched. "Don't worry, Sam'll show you."

Dean does his best to copy Sam, mirroring the stretches that Sam explains help to stop pulled muscles and will make him more flexible. Sam can do them all perfectly, even the box splits and Dean's pretty jealous. But he didn't know about any of this stuff, when _he _trained, Edwin would just start hitting him, or set him on a circuit to run and run…

Dad stands in between him and Sam as they face each other. Sam's tall and Dean knows how strong he is, he can remember how Sam had restrained him all that time ago. But he'd been hungry and weak then, now he's stronger and not so sick and he's not going to be taken by surprise. Dean grits his teeth and forces himself to look forwards. He breathes out deeply and feels his training slip into place. He forces himself to ignore the weird feeling of affection he feels for his brother, forces himself not to think about the things Sam has bought him, the way Sam's coming running to help him, all the times Sam has sat and talked with him and made him feel like someone actually cares about him. Dean forces himself not to think about 'Dean and Sam Winchester'. It's the bait and the enemy, pure and simple.

As soon as Dad moves away, Dean launches himself forward, a sweep with his front leg sends his enemy to the floor. The guy rolls away but not fast enough to avoid Dean's foot in his abdomen. As is opponent curls in on himself groaning, Dean uses his other foot to kick at his head, watching with satisfaction as he draws blood and hears the guy choking on it. He doesn't even need to think as his body works on decades of conditioning. Hit them and don't stop until you're ordered to. The guy curls up tighter and Dean prepares for another assault when he feels a hand yanking him backwards.

"Jesus Christ, Dean! That's enough!"

Dad… Dean exhales as he's literally thrown off his brother and he lands on his side, back against the wall.

"Christ, Sammy, can you hear me?" Dad's kneeling over Sam, tapping his face and checking his eyes. Dean just stares blankly ahead…no one ever did that for him.

"You stupid bastard Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Training…" Dean murmurs his reply. Dad says something in response but it sounds muffled in Dean's head as he remembers being in this position so many times. Lying on his side waiting for the next beating, lying on his side too weak to move, lying on his side watching Edwin beat and torture someone else…

"**Dean!" **he startles, pulling himself to his feet as John barks at him. "Move your ass and get the first aid kit."

Dean does, throwing it to John and then standing back helplessly. Dad's so pissed and Dean doesn't get why. He fought well, Sam was helpless against him, he thought Dad would have been proud.

"I'm sorry?" he offers as Dad stares at him. Dad doesn't reply and Dean feels a weird knot in his stomach. He'd rather have Dad beat the shit out of him than have him looking at him the way he is right now.

"I said I'm fucking sorry, alright?" Dean yells. "What's your fucking problem? It's not my fault he can't fight for shit! What else do you want me to say?" he doesn't know why he's saying all this. He wants to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness, he wants to look after Sammy and apologise to him too.

Dad doesn't even _look_, just keeps wiping away the blood streaming from Sam's nose and mouth. Dean's helpless, just standing and trembling, fucked up from today and the onslaught of memories.

"Why don't you go to your room for a while, Dean?" Dad asks in a monotone and Dean nods, recognising an order when he hears one.

Inside Sam's room – Dean can't bring himself to think of it as _their _room now, Dean goes through those oh-so-familiar motions. First thing to come of is his belt and, as he removes it, Dean runs his shaking hands over the heavy metal buckle and imagines the pain of that hitting him at force. He hopes Dad _does _use the buckle end, he deserves it after all. Next he unzips Dad's hoodie and folds it up as nice as he can, leaving that and his belt in a neat pile a few paces from the door. He can hear Sam's voice and the corner of his mouth twitches in a tiny smile, he's glad the younger guy's okay.

Preparations done, Dean turns around so his back is to the door and kneels and waits.

* * *

It's taken a good couple of hours for his ears to stop ringing but Sam can finally sit up without feeling like he's about to vomit. Dad's been with him the whole time, just sitting in the middle of the barren living room, one arm around Sam's shoulders.

"How many fingers?" the older Winchester asks again and Sam rolls his eyes.

"You always hold up three fingers first," he smiles. For once there's no scorn in his voice.

Dad laughs too. "Trust you to notice something like that," there's no malice in Dad's words either. Just affection. It's been a long, long time since Sam's been alone with Dad without arguing. Even the silence isn't awkward.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Wait. What? Did dad just…apologise? "I must still be delirious," Sam mutters to himself.

Dad chuckles and shrugs, looking oddly abashed. "I tried it out with Dean, turns out I _can _apologise," Dad laughs. "I figured if Dean can forgive me…"

"…then anyone can," Sam finishes. He can't help but wonder what Dad was apologising _for_, and exactly what it was that Dean forgave.

"I shouldn't have put you in that situation. I didn't think for a minute that Dean would..."

"It's not your fault," Sam replies, because it really isn't. "I went along with it too. We couldn't have known Dean would be like that."

"Should we have?" Dad asks. "I just took it all for granted. Control, respect, safety, I thought it was all obvious."

"Nothing's obvious for Dean," Sam sighs sadly. "It's so easy to take things for granted with him."

Dad nods solemnly before breaking into a rueful chuckle. "Hell of a fighter though," he laughs with a shake of his head.

Sam nods, gingerly feeling the bruises blossoming over his face and abdomen. He hadn't even seen Dean's sweep coming, he'd been on the floor before it even registered that Dean was moving. He was so fast, and…Sam cringed as he remembered those blows, so powerful and unrelenting. Is that what Dean had been through, beatings as savage as that…worse? It had been a horrible experience, Sam couldn't imagine going through that all the time. And…he'd always thought he was a pretty good fighter, he'd always reckoned he could hold his own against most people.

"Listen…" Dad runs a hand through his hair. "All this stuff with Missouri and Robby and these _visions_…" Sam can tell it's hard for Dad to even say the word but he's impressed the guy actually manages. "I don't really know what's going on but…we'll figure out. We will. Whatever it is."

Sam nods and then turns to look at his father in the eyes. "Who are you and what have you done with my Dad?"

John shakes his head. "Yeah well, you can blame Dean for all this. I never was into all this caring and sharing shit until I saw…until I saw how good you were with Dean and I figured, maybe there's something to it after all."

"_Blame _Dean?" Sam echoes, breaking into a grin. "I'll give him a medal!"

Dad laughs too and then cranes his neck to look at the bedroom door. "I was pretty harsh with him," he muses, "You'll be alright if I go talk to him?"

Sam nods slowly, pressing the ice pack to his face. "I think that's a good idea."

Sam watches as Dad gets to his feet, trying not to cringe as the man pats him on the back. "Dad," he calls out. "Just…remember. This isn't his fuck up, it ours. He doesn't know any better."

"I know," Dad nods and Sam can tell by the troubled expression on his father's face that he really _does _know. But that doesn't mean that either of them have a clue how to make it right.

* * *

**AN: Okay guys, I hope you liked this chapter. I wanted to bring things back to basics and just spend some time with the Winchesters. I really enjoyed writing this one, I hope you liked reading it. **


	51. Chapter 51

**AN: Yeah, wow, so uh sorry. My life kind of turned upside down for a while. For a long, long while. I'm sorry I didn't reply to anyone's messages or anything. I am really grateful for all the support. And sorry for not giving an explanation or an answer when you really all did deserve one after all the support you gave me :( I am sorry. I hope you are all ok x **

* * *

**Chapter Fifty One**

John doesn't get an answer to his knock on the bedroom door but he wasn't really expecting one. It's been hours, he figures Dean has probably gone to sleep as he normally does when he has some free time.

John knows Dean doesn't sleep at night; he's heard the young man cry out in his sleep, heard Sammy trying to comfort him, reassuring his big brother it was just a dream, promising him he won't be beaten for talking in his sleep. Then there's been the mornings he and Sam have spent frantically looking for Dean, only to find him curled up asleep outside, shirtless and shivering on the cold earth. Wrapped in a blanket and drinking warm milk Dean would just apologise, say that he forgot he was allowed to sleep inside or that he'd assumed he wouldn't be allowed because of some fucked up little thing he thought he should be punished for.

He's not anticipating the sight that greets him when he does push open the door. Dean's kneeling upright, hands down at his sides, head bowed to the floor. The hoodie he was wearing is folded up in the middle of the room, his belt coiled on top of it. John doesn't know what to think.

"Dean?"

He sees Dean flinch slightly but otherwise there's no response from the boy. John frowns as he picks up the belt, running the worn leather through his hands. And then he looks at Dean's back and realises. There are so many old wounds there, scars upon scars, years and years of beatings crisscrossed over Dean's skin. Gingerly, John reaches his hand out, running his fingers over the marks. Dean flinches again and John can feel him trembling under his fingertips. He doesn't speak as he crouches down and wraps his arms around his eldest son. Dean's been here for two hours…kneeling alone for hours, waiting for a beating he'd set up himself. John shakes his head and pulls away, holding Dean's face in his hands as he stares into his son's eyes.

"What are you doing son?"

"I tried to get everything ready," Dean mumbles, pulling free of John's tender hands. "How do you want me?"

John's so distracted by Dean's resigned acceptance of his punishment he doesn't even register what Dean's said. "Huh?"

"Edwin liked me to kneel down but Walker liked me to stand against a wall. Or…you could chain me up or-"

"Shush, shush, that's enough of that," John stands up, running his hands through his hair and pacing. He doesn't want to hear about how different men liked to position his son when they were beating him. He doesn't want to think about how many more positions Dean would have 'suggested' if he'd let him go on.

"Have you been kneeling there this whole time?" He wants Dean to say no, to crack some smart alec comment or tell him to fuck off. _Anything _but this hollow, broken shell that brings back those horrible memories of when he'd first found Dean, on his knees waiting for a bullet in his head.

"Yes Sir."

"And now, you think I'm going to whip you? With this?" John looks down at the leather strap in his hands.

"I…I don't know, Sir. That's just what Edwin usually-"

John cuts his son off as he hurls the belt across the room. "Dean…Dean, Dean, Dean…" John doesn't even know where to start. "Sit down."

Dean does, wincing as he finally changes position. John sighs, sitting across from his son and rolling his trouser legs up. Dean's knees are a vicious red, John knows they'll be black and blue in the morning. "These hurt?" he asks sadly and Dean seems to break a little then, staring down at the ground and shaking his head a fraction – a blatant lie. John's heart breaks at the sight, he can see tears dripping from Dean's eyes.

"Edwin taught you not to say when you were in pain?" it's a question but not much of one. He already knows the answer. Dean nods, still staring at the floor.

"Yes Sir."

"Why are you calling me 'Sir'?" John tries to keep things light. "I thought we were past that now?"

Dean won't look at him at all. "I don't deserve to call you Dad anymore."

"I think I'm the judge of that," John tries to smile again but Dean just nods again and whispers his reply.

"Yes Sir."

John's at a loss as he stands up again. He knows the fact he's up and down like a yo-yo probably isn't very calming for Dean but it's all he can do not to just stand there and trash the room just to vent his emotions somehow. He's never seen Dean like this and it fucking scares him. What the hell has he done to his boy? The guilt is crushing and John finds himself sinking to the floor, his back sliding down the wall as he holds his head in his hands. He has one son bruised and bloodied and concussed in the living room and now his eldest is sitting, hollow, defeated and too afraid to even acknowledge him as his father. He needs to put this right.

"You're not going to be punished, Dean." First things first. It's not exactly as reassuring as he'd hoped it would be, if anything Dean looks nervous at the thought.

"But…but Sir…_Dad_, I have to be!"

John doesn't even want to imagine what's going on in Dean's head but he has to know. He has to stop burying his head in the sand and do what Sam has been strong enough to do for all these months. He has to _listen_.

"No, you don't, you haven't done anything wrong. This is all my fault." John's not even just talking about the training session. "Everything…it's all my fault."

"I…I won't learn if you don't punish me. I have to learn so I get it right next time."

John shakes his head as he feels a lump forming in his throat. Just a few hours ago Dean called him Dad for the first time and things were about as good as they'd ever been. And now, Dean's calling him Sir and spilling out all the details of the mental abuse Edwin inflicted on him.

"Dad…_please_," Dean crawls over to him, seemingly oblivious to the pain that must be radiating from his knees. "Dad please, I-I want to stay here. I don't want to go. I know I fucked up, I know I fucked up real bad but it wasn't on purpose, I-I didn't mean to do it, I promise."

"Dean, I know you didn't. You're not gonna-"

"You don't have to use the belt if you don't want, I can take anything, I promise. Whatever you do to me, I'll still come on the hunt, I'll do good no matter what. I'll take anything you want if…_please_, please, please just let me stay here." There's a pause and it's all John can do not to throw up. "We bought a chain today, you want me to get that? Kubrick liked to use chains, he said it was symbolic." Dean actually smiles a fraction, like he's offering to get a hot drink or a candy bar. Like he thinks the thought of beating his own son with a chain is going to cheer John up.

"No…"

Dean looks puzzled again, searching in his mind for more fucked up ideas and then trying again. "You…you want a blade then?"

"Dean, stop it!" John finally finds his voice. "I don't want…I don't want any of those things. I just want you to listen to me."

Dean nods and John gestures for the kid to sit down next to him. Dean does, without hesitation and John takes a deep breath in and out.

"You are going to stay here, Dean. Okay? I would never, ever send you away. No matter what you did, you understand that?"

Dean's eyes are wide as he stares at John making rare eye-contact, almost like he's searching for the lie in John's eyes.

"This is your home. For good. **Forever**. I lost you once, I'll never lose you again. No matter what."

"But I…I hurt Sam," Dean reminds him, as if he could have forgotten.

"I know you did, but that…you were just doing what you'd be taught and I was too dumb to think about it. It's me who should be apologising, Dean. I fucked up today, big style. I hurt _you_."

Dean shakes his head. "But I deserved it. I deserve more. How do you know I'm really sorry if you don't punish me?"

"Come here…" John wraps his arm around Dean, just as he'd done with Sam earlier. Dean's still against him, weary from his day and compliant in his father's arms. John can remember the days when Dean was too scared to even sit on the same couch with him. Things might feel like shit now but…this is progress, he has to keep remembering that.

"You're my son, Dean," he repeats, running a hand through Dean's hair. "My first-born son and I…I've failed you your whole life and I failed you today."

Dean doesn't speak for a minute, John can feel him tense and trembling under his arm but he keeps the contact, he needs it as much as Dean if he's honest.

"I didn't want to hurt him," Dean finally speaks, his voice hesitant and quiet.

"I know you didn't," John replies, wondering what punishments Dean has been through in the past that would make him willing to beat up someone he cares about without hesitation. Stop wondering and ask, he tells himself.

"What was it like, training with Edwin?"

There's another pause as Dean's eyes go vacant. When the boy does finally speak, he acts like he's confessing to some kind of unforgivable sin. "I didn't like it."

But of course, to Dean, having his own opinion is pretty damned unforgivable. Disagreeing with his 'master' _is _a sin, probably something that would have earned him a beating like the one he was expecting today.

"But…it made me strong, and fast and…if he wasn't so nice to take time to train me I wouldn't have been able to survive so I…I should be…" Dean struggles over the last words. "I should be grateful to him."

John shakes his head as he takes in Dean's words. He wonders whether Edwin truly believed that or if it was just another lie to fuck with Dean's head.

"_How _did he train you?" John asks and Dean just shrugs.

"Every day. Almost every day. Weapons, katas, sparring, drill, circuits, tracking…" Dean stops, probably because he's run out of breath rather than of things to say. "Everything he did was to make me stronger and tougher. A better tool for him to use."

John can't think how to reply. He hates to think of Dean having to go through such brutality on a daily basis. But somewhere inside of him is a dark, selfish glimmer of glee that he doesn't even want to acknowledge. The thought of what a skilled hunter Dean will be, how useful he will be to their cause. John hates himself for even thinking something like that when Dean's baring his soul but he can't help it! This new world, everything that's happened since 'Gate has made him like this - made him look at every situation in terms of how it can help or hinder their survival. And, from the brief glimpse he's seen of Dean's fighting ability, not to mention his freaky little healing buddy back at Jim's, John can't help but think that their odds just got a whole lot freaking better.


End file.
